


we could steal time

by dorky (dorcas_gustine)



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-12
Updated: 2011-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-20 08:59:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 34,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorcas_gustine/pseuds/dorky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case that spans thre decades and two detectives from different times trying to solve it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. just for one day

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously AU, as it takes place some time after 2x03 and goes a very different way from what we’ve seen and what we’ll see. Also, Sam’s stay in 1973 has prolonged to 1974.
> 
> Title from Bowie's song Heroes.
> 
> Betaed by [](http://elfinessy.livejournal.com/profile)[**elfinessy**](http://elfinessy.livejournal.com/)
> 
>  **Warnings:** Ethical, moral and discrimination issues of various kind. This is Gene Hunt we're talking about after all. Also: mentions cheating.

**part one : just for one day**

 

Sam turned the corner sharply, almost losing his balance, and kept on running, chasing one John Delan, guilty of a series of store robberies, car theft and assault. And resisting arrest.

He’d stopped checking to see if the others were keeping up with him, but he could hear Chris’ pants behind him and the sound of his uncoordinated running.

Delan stumbled slightly and Sam took his chance, forcing his legs to go faster and finally managing to reach him, pouncing on him from behind and sending them both sprawling on the ground. He grimaced as his knuckles scratched on the pavement, his whole hand burning with the pain, but he held fast on Delan, who was trying to wriggle out from under him.

Delan thrust back his elbow, and even with the awkward angle managed to hit him just above his eye, pain exploding all through the right side of his face, extracting a surprised cry out of him.

Delan scrambled up and made to run once again, but Sam was determined not to let him slip out of his grasp and managed to hold onto a leg until he too was once again standing and ready to beat the hell out of the guy – because honestly, as Gene had pointed out earlier, he was a nasty bugger – when it happened.

In the grapple of limbs he lost sight of one of Delan’s arms but felt it when he was hit in the chest, open palm, well-aimed and powerful.

He heard Chris’ strangled and breathless ‘Boss!’ and the screeching of brakes.

 _Oh shit_ , he thought, _not again_.

 

* * *

 

Sam knew he was in a hospital, but he also knew for certain that he was still in ’73. He’d known as soon as he’d regained consciousness, the smell of cigarette smoke and Scotch was very telling.

“You shouldn’t smoke in here, Guv,” he said, his voice barely audible, even to his own ears.

“Head caved in, eyes not even opened and he’s still a pestering arsehole,” came the gruff reply, “You probably talk in your sleep, too.”

Sam opened his eyes and glared at him, or tried to, his head hurt too much, “I’m awake.”

Gene was sprawled on a chair, his feet propped up on the bed, a couple of buttons open on his shirt and his tie loosened. He had a flask in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Sam knew how much those chair were uncomfortable, but Gene looked like a man enjoining a quiet evening in front of the telly in his living room at home. He looked calm and relaxed, and not really impressed by Sam’s current condition.

“Bet you could, though.”

“What?”

“Flap yer mouth even in yer sleep,” Gene said moving the fingers of his right hand as if to illustrate the point.

Sam really wasn’t in the mood and let that go, choosing to assess his injuries instead. His right arm was in a cast and with the fingers of his good hand he touched the bandage on his forehead and then the back of his head. He flinched both times, the pain noticeable even above the numb aching that had settled all over his body, and when he raised his eyes again Gene was watching him with a frown.

“What’s the verdict?”

Gene inhaled cigarette smoke and pursued his lips, “Broken arm, bruised ribs. And yer head’s now more scrambled than it used to be,” he concluded, carelessly flicking the still lit butt on the ground.

He shrugged, “It was quite a flight, actually. Yer brain would be a smear on the asphalt if it weren’t for your hard head.”

Sam glared at him even if it hurt, because the situation obviously warranted it, “The concern literally dripping from your words overwhelms me.”

Gene seemed to consider that, then stood up and grunted, stretching his arms. A few joints popped and Sam inwardly winced, he must have spent a lot of time on that chair.

“We nicked the bastards, though.”

Sam frowned. Bastard _s_? “What do you mean _bastards_? I thought we established that Delan worked alone.”

Gene opened his mouth in what was more the imitation of a shark than a grin.

A hungry shark.

“No. But the other bloke could have been Santa Claus himself for all the happy snow he had in the car.”

Sam blinked stupidly at him, “Cocaine? You’re kidding me.”

 

“Nope,” Gene smirked, “You seem to attract trouble everywhere you go, Sammy-boy. Reckon we could let you roam free around the city and follow you to see what happens.”

For a terrifying moment it seemed like he was _actually_ considering that, but then he shrugged. “Nah. Wouldn’t be worth all the paperwork and the sick days.”

“Ha bloody ha. Once again your concern moves me.”

Gene put on his coat and predictably lit another cigarette.

“Where are you going?”

“You’re not a drooling vegetable-”

“It’s _vegetative_. Vegetative state.”

“Whatever. You’re no more a blabbing twat than usual, so I’m going to the pub.”

“What? And leave me here?”

Gene gave him a look, “You twirled into the air like a bloody ballerina and you look like you’ve been gettin’ in fights with walls. And losing. But you’re still alive and likely to start annoying me again in no time. So I’m going to the pub and drink some booze to brace meself for that.”

There was a pause and Gene looked expectantly at him, presumably to see if he was going to argue.

Sam said nothing.

“I see we’re clear,” he said at last, then before turning, “Cheers.”

“How long was I out?” he called.

Gene stopped and stood with his back still to Sam, “Six hours,” he replied and left.

 

* * *

 

“Welcome back, Boss!” Chris exclaimed with a big grin, then frowned and seemed unconvinced. “Should you be back so soon?”

“I’m alright,” he replied, shrugging and immediately regretting it when it jolted his ribs.

“Uh, all right,” Chris replied, but he stood there, hovering.

Sam raised his eyes and met Ray’s, the other man nodded at him and for him it was probably a welcome back as warm as a hug. Sam nodded back.

He’d just sat at his desk to go over his reports when Gene’s office door slammed open and the man himself bellowed, “Tyler! You bloody idiot! The hell you doin’ here? I thought we said a week!”

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it. Then he thought about it and tried again.

As it was the decision was taken from him, as Gene came forward, grabbed him by his good arm and manhandled him – albeit rather gently, for _Gene_ – into his office. The door slammed closed, but with the volume Gene was using it wasn’t like it would serve as privacy.

“Out with it.”

Sam shuffled his feet a bit and fixed his gaze upon the dozens sheets of paper scattered on the desk, just to look at something.

Something that wasn’t Gene.

He hung his head, “I was bored,” he admitted, finally.

“You were… _bored_?” Gene still sounded angry, a bit incredulous as well.

Sam glared at him, “Have you seen the place I live in? Playing Russian roulette would be more ntertaining than look at my wallpaper all day, every day. For a _week_ ,” the last word came out whinier than he would have liked.

Gene sat down, “I’ll agree with you on that.”

Sam sat down too, “I’m glad I have your approval.”

The door opened an inch and Chris’ head poked in, his eyes going from one man to the other to gauge the level of volatility in the room. Evidently he’d lost the draw to tell them whatever news he was bringing.

“Uh, Guv,” he said, eventually deciding to stop on Gene, “We got a call. Murder.”

Gene nodded but made no move to stand up, there was a long awkward moment during which the both of them stared at Chris expectantly. It got no result, except maybe making the young DC fidget more.

Gene rolled his eyes, “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Chris seemed relieved at that and nodded, disappearing a second later.

Sam wriggled a bit on the chair, trying to find a comfortable position, then gave up and stood again, “These chairs are bloody uncomfortable.”

Gene looked at him, “Chose them meself.”

“So that no one can sit there long enough to annoy you?”

“Seems to work, doesn’t it?”

Sam stood for a moment, then sat on his desk, grinning smugly.

“Oi! You’re messin’ with me papers!” Gene exclaimed but made no attempt to retrieve said papers.

“Your papers _are_ a mess. I await with fear the day I’ll have to sort through this to get a report. You’ll probably need a search party to find me.”

Gene looked like he was about to retort with some insult or maybe just plain swearing, but he gave him a look and smirked slowly.

Sam suddenly became very, very worried. His previous smugness replaced by uncertainty, he frowned at Gene and sat up straighter.

Gene sat back and waved vaguely at him, “Then why don’t you sort this…’ _mess_ ’ out while me and the lads go and check that possible murder?”

Sam gaped at him, “You can’t-” but Gene was gone.

 

* * *

 

Sam observed the three neat piles he’d managed to sort out, his good hand resting on his hip.

He sat down on Gene’s chair and squinted a bit, the one in middle actually covered his visual of half of the door. He sighed and hung his head.

It had taken him a good three hours just to collect the files on the desk and the ones he’d picked up from the floor – not to mention the one Gene had put as some sort of makeshift wedge under a leg of the desk – and separate them following some kind of logic. Now he was actually kind of tired, and hungry too.

The door opened and Gene came in, the pause in his strides the only indication that he’d noticed him. “You still ‘ere?”

Sam glared at him, but it went unnoticed, as Gene walked around him to get to the bottle of Scotch in his drawer. When he closed it a bit too forcefully, the files on the desk swayed dangerously and Sam hurried to steady them once again.

“Careful!”

Gene took a glass, then thought about it and took another. He considered Sam’s work and nodded at him, “You done?”

“Nope. I just finished sorting them,” he explained, shaking his head when Gene handed him his glass, “I’m taking painkillers, I shouldn’t-”

He hadn’t finished the phrase before Gene emptied Sam's glass into his with a shrug.

Sam pointed at the files on the left, “That’s the To Archive pile,” then at the one on the right, “That’s the To Sign pile.”

Gene didn’t seem impressed at all, he sipped his Scotch and smacked his lips, then pointed at the one in the middle, “What’s that?”

“The Everything Else Pile.”

Gene considered it for a minute, then he raised his eyebrows at him, “You were _really_ bored,” he concluded, a little surprised.

Sam shrugged and hissed, his arm curling protectively over his ribs. Gene put his glass on the desk and turned towards him, “Lunch?”

 

* * *

 

It was nearly three in the afternoon when Sam paused during his sorting out the mess of Gene Hunt’s desk and realized that he was a DCI – well, a DI – and not a secretary.

He let the files drop from his hands and they landed on the desk with a meek _fwap_.

He had taken a few steps towards the door, only to turn back and go back to Gene’s desk. He rummaged through the drawers and took his Scotch, looking around the room for a place to hide it.

That done, with a satisfied smirk and feeling accomplished, he made his way to his own desk and sat down to go over the notes of their current case.

And thank God for Chris and his detailed note taking, because if it were for his Guv the only thing he’d know at present would be that Jimmy ‘Eye’ Darvell was a poor bastard and that he certainly didn’t need another hole in his head. Of course, reading Chris’ notes warranted remarkable abilities both in the fields of interpretation and imagination. A smattering of hieroglyphic deciphering skills didn’t hurt, either.

From what he’d gathered, squinting at the chicken scrawl, Jimmy ‘Eye’ Darvell had been found in a back alley near his house by a neighbour. Cause of death was a single gunshot wound – and Sam had to spend some time, because it looked more like a doodle or a spasm, instead of ‘ _gunshot wound_ ’ – to the back of his head.

He turned the page to see if there was more, but the only words were ‘witnesses not suspects!’ written in big, clear block letters. There also was, at the bottom of the page, a small sketch of a stick figure with a moustache that could only be Ray. Sam shook his head and his lips curled into a smile.

So, who the hell was Jimmy Eye? From the words Gene had used earlier during lunch, Sam had guessed he’d been a criminal of some sort, but since he’d…’arrived’ here he’d never heard of him.

He could look in the archives, but he was probably going to end up swallowed by the mountains of paper. If they’d told him, he’d never have believed there would be a time when he'd give almost anything to have access to Windows.

Even Windows ME.

But that was a path that could only lead to despair.

A phone ringing somewhere in the building shook him out of his reverie, and pushing his thoughts of the future – Present? Hallucinations? Coma? – away, he grabbed Chris’ note pad and went to find Phyllis.

He leant on the front desk, Phyllis was nodding thoughtfully, “Jimmy Eye kicked it, didn’t he?”

Sam nodded, “Everyone here seems to have known him, except me. What can you tell me?”

Phyllis shrugged, “Worst burglar I’ve ever seen.”

Sam frowned, “What do you mean?”

“He always got caught. Or almost caught. Never managed to steal much. Was a real gentleman, though,” she stamped down on some papers with a force that made Sam wince, then resumed, “Called everyone by name ‘ere and never gave any problems.”

“If he hardly succeeded, how did he manage to sustain himself?”

Phyllis gave him a look, “His wife. She works at the post office.”

Sam nodded and tried to write down the new information he’d gathered, but he wasn’t used to the cast yet and the results were less than admirable, his writing barely more legible than Chris’. He grimaced and put his pen down, giving up.

“I thought you were sorting out the Guv’s office.”

Sam scowled and closed the pad with an angry gesture, “He can sort his own mess out. I’m not his bloody secretary.”

Phyllis gave him a rather unimpressed look, “If you say so, Boss.”

Sam was about to reply to that when the door burst open and in came two PCs pulling and at the same time trying to restrain a man that was bigger than the two of them put together. A third PC rushed in after them, his truncheon ready but with no openings to act.

Sam left the front desk to help them, but all he received for his efforts was an elbow to his aching ribs. He was sent sprawling on the floor, stunned and breathless by the sudden flare of pain burning in his right side.

This day was just getting better and better.

 

* * *

 

The door to the lockers room burst open with a subtlety that bore the mark of Gene Hunt, his voice bellowing to the room at large, “Tyler!”

Sam sighed and meekly raised his good hand and called him over to the bench he was lying on, carefully breathing in and out.

A shadow obscured his light and Gene was everything he could see when he squinted up at him, “Guv,” he said.

“Sleepin’ on the job, Gladys?” Gene said, “Up and at ‘em, we got work to do.”

Sam shook his head, “I have no intentions of getting in the vicinity of your desk in the near future, Guv.”

Gene grabbed his arm and pulled him into a sitting position, stopping and doing it a tad more gently when Sam hissed in pain, “Last time I checked you were a DI, not a bloody secretary.”

Sam tried to convey all of his hatred through one glare, but Gene seemed unfazed. Actually, he was _smirking_ at him, “So, you startin’ fight with the big boys now?” he asked, then clicked his tongue and shook his head in a disapproving manner, “A little girl like you, in your condition.”

Sam stood gingerly up and resumed with his glaring, “How come you suddenly want me on the investigation when this morning you left me here, doing virtually nothing?”

Gene shrugged, “You wanted to teach me a lesson so badly, I had to let you,” he smirked at him, “Learned yours?”

Sam said nothing and just followed Gene as he went towards the door, “Ladies first, Tyler,” he said, holding the door for him. One of these days Sam was going to win one – just one, that was all he wanted – and it would be _grand_ , because now even if he was right, he didn’t win at all. Gene always managed to be quite right in his own way.

“So, what do I have to know?” he asked, reaching his Guv’s side.

Gene’s face assumed a thoughtful expression, “Lessee,” then it cleared, “Oh, right. Jimmy Eye copped it.”

“That’s it? I already knew that!”

“You know everything, then, fully briefed ye are,” Gene smiled unpleasantly, “We can go to the pub.”

“You can’t-” Sam drew in a calming breath, “Witnesses? Evidence at the scene?”

“No and no,” Gene answered, then seemed to think about it, “Actually, the plonk found something, but forensics have got that. And even if it’s for their hero DI Sam bloody Tyler, it’s still gonna take a while. So, pub?”

Without waiting for a reply Gene started walking again, leaving Sam behind and forcing him to

speed up to catch up with him, “What about his wife?”

Gene groaned and stopped, then swirled around to face him, “What do you think I’ve been doing all day? Goin’ around all higgledy-piggledy? Of course I spoke with his wife, but she knows nowt. Now how about you stop bein’ a pillock and come to the pub for a pint?”

Sam stayed where he was, glaring at him, Gene glaring back. In the end he won, because Gene sighed like he had the whole weight of the world on his shoulders and threw open his arms.

Sam smirked in triumph.

 

* * *

 

Sam rubbed his eyes in defeat.

Helen Darvell was faring rather well, considering her husband had just been murdered. She wasn’t crying her eyes out, at any rate, she just kept _talking_. Sam sank back into the uncomfortable sofa, trying to find a position that didn’t make his bum go numb and waited for a gap in Mrs Darvell’s monologue to take the reins of the conversation. He hadn’t been lucky so far, but he was optimistic.

She _had_ to stop and breathe sooner or later.

By now they knew everything about Jimmy Eye’s life up to his 36th year of age and they were about to enter into his 37th, but they were still far from the day of the murder, or night as it was. Sam had long stopped trying to keep on an interested face when Mrs Darvell had dived into a long and detailed discussion about Jimmy Eye’s preferences in regards of brands of _tea_ , and beside him Gene had a fake smile plastered on his lips, but his eyes were miles away, his mind probably already in the pub, waiting for his body to join it.

Mrs Darvell coughed and Sam was so distracted that he almost lost his chance, “Mrs Darvell!” he exclaimed a little breathless and she gave him a strange look. He cleared his voice and tried again, “When I said we wanted to ask a few questions about your husband, I meant about last night.”

“Oh,” she quietly said and seemed to fold in on herself, looking so small that Sam almost told her to resume the tale about Jimmy Eye’s 37th birthday.

“Did your husband have any enemies? Someone who may have wanted to hurt him?” He shook her head, “I know my husband has – _had_ – his faults, but he was no villain. A real gentleman.”

Sam nodded, “Alright, Mrs Darvell, has your husband been acting strangely, lately? Think about it, even the smallest thing could be vital.”

She nodded, frowning and biting her lower lip in deep thought. “There might be this little thing,” she said at last, unconvinced.

Sam sat up straighter and subtly elbowed Gene in the ribs to shake him out of his reverie.

“A few days ago,” she frowned again, “I think it was Wednesday, because I remember I’d just came home from July’s and I go over to her house every-”

“Mrs Darvell, please,” Sam interrupted her before she could launch into another endless monologue.

“Right,” she nodded, “Anyway, I came home and he was…I don’t know. I knew he’d been doing one of his- _visits_. We never really talked about it, but he’s my husband and I know him. Knew him,” she trailed off and Sam sent a glare in Gene’s direction, in case he wanted to be his usual rude self. His Guv sat silent, though, his arms crossed over his chest.

After a moment, she resumed, “He looked kind of shaken, and when I asked him what he was worried about, he said that he’d seen two men.”

“Two men?” Gene said, “That’s it? Two men doin’ what? Hanky pankin’? Killin’ someone?”

“Talking,” she said, a bit miffed, “He saw two men talking.”

Sam blinked, confused, “Did he tell you where he saw these to men…talking? Or what they were talking about?”

“No, but I’ll tell you one thing, DI Tyler,” she said, leaning forward and lowering her voice, “He was scared.”

Sam was about to ask another question, when Gene stood up and grabbed the collar of his jacket, heaving him up as well.

Sam tried to take his leave from Mrs Darvell as fast as he could, because Gene was already in the car and any minute now he would start the engine. Fast, however, was a concept that eluded the widow’s mind and it took Sam three attempts and the promise to come back to get the secret recipe of her special biscuits – he’d made the mistake, earlier, of praising them over tea and of admitting he too liked to cook when he had the time. In the end, his Guv’s bad manners saved the situation for once, as he started honking and bellowing, his chest halfway out of the side window.

Mrs Darvell let him go and stood in the doorway, waving and smiling until they were out of sight, which wasn't very long at the speed Gene was going.

“You know,” he started conversationally, “They won’t break the sound barrier on land speed until the nineties.”

Gene shot him a look but said nothing, his attention back on the road to avoid the pedestrians, either brave or stupid enough to even attempt to cross the road when Gene Hunt was driving.

Sam snorted, “What? No remarks about Mrs Darvell, for whom logorrhoea is too mild a word? No quirks about,” he gestured vaguely with his left hand, “Princess Samantha exchanging secret recipes with her friends?”

Gene raised his eyebrows at him and smirked, “You seem to be doin’ well on your own,” he grinned wider, “ _Samantha_ ,” then he shrugged, “As for Helen, I’ve known her for a few years now, she’s always been wordy like. Balanced out her husband, never said a word more than necessary the old bastard.”

Sam sank against the seat, head thrown back and eyes closed against the forming of a headache.

“She’s just lonely,” Gene said quietly, starling him, “Been married for a long time, she’s not used to bein’ alone again.”

Sam watched him carefully, not sure how to handle this new information or the fact that Gene had volunteered it, out of the blue. It was unsettling, this trust that Gene seemed to have placed just on him, the small glimpses of his more serious side that only he got to witness.

His Guv was facing ahead, though, and after a while Sam gave up, closing his eyes and reclining his head backwards.

"Yeah," he said, and the rest of the journey was spent in silence.

 

* * *

 

He’d been actually sleeping for once, calm and peaceful, if a bit limited in his movements because of his still healing injuries. Of course, it wasn’t destined to be. He was roused around two am – as he had occasion to check, later – by a pounding on his door that could only be Gene’s.

“Yeah?” he asked to the closed door, scratching his chest through the worn vest.

“Who d’ya think it is Susan?” came the bellow, “Derren bloody Nesbitt?”

Sam rubbed his eyes and decided to be just thankful he hadn’t kicked in the door, even in this neighbourhood he was starting to get wary glances every time he had to put up the bloody thing once more.

Just as he’d supposed, as soon as he’d opened the door in came DCI Gene Hunt, a bit unsure in his steps and stinking slightly of booze, even if not as much as his best – or worst – levels.

“The missus is away until Wednesday,” he said and burped.

“You’re drunk,” Sam said, accusingly, because it was two in the morning and bloody hell if he didn’t have the right to be whiny.

Gene disregarded him with a dismissing sniff, barely glancing at him. He dropped his coat in Sam’s arms and kicking off his shoes, he let himself fall on the bed, the old springs letting out a horrible squeaking in protest.

“Hey!” Sam exclaimed, “I was sleeping there!”

“Now you aren’t,” came the reply, muffled by the pillow – _his_ pillow – and before Sam could reply, soft snoring could be heard all through the flat.

Sam stood still in the middle of the room for two good minutes, his hand gripping the coat close to his chest, the door open. Finally, he sighed in resignation, kicked the door shut, hung the coat and tried to find a comfortable position on the chair.

At seven am he gave up and went to the small kitchenette to get breakfast ready, his body sore and his mood dark.

When Gene woke up not much later, he actually seemed kind of baffled at his own presence in Sam’s flat, but he said nothing and Sam sulked in silence.

The plates landed with a clatter on the small table, “Reckon you don’t sleep alone, either,” he muttered, and when Gene stiffened he knew he’d hit the mark. Gene didn’t comment though, and attacked his breakfast with his head lowered, more shovelling down food than actually eating it.

After a while Sam sighed, put down his fork and acted in what must have been a momentary lapse of reason – because he certainly hadn’t intended to cut any slack at all to the man who’d kicked him out of his own bed and obliged him to sleep on the lumpy chair. He stood up and started rummaging through all the drawers to find a marker, feeling Gene’s eyes following his every movement. The search was long, because even if his place was quite far from being roomy, the last time he’d used a marker was- actually he didn’t remember, but he was sure he had one, an entire box in fact. He’d bought it when he’d seen the brand in a store, the Proustian sensation of holding the cardboard box in his hands bringing him back years, to his childhood.

Which was about _now_ , actually.

His Guv finally gave in, “What’re you doin’?”

“A-Ah!” Sam exclaimed, brandishing the box and a triumphant smile. Gene frowned at him, the fork suspended on the way to his mouth.

“You wanna sign my cast?”

“What for?” Gene asked, as if the mere thought was unconceivable to him.

Sam’s smile fell, “It’s just a…thing. Like a get well soon card. Means nothing, but it’s nice anyway.”

Gene was still frowning, but he gestured to the box still clutched in Sam’s good hand, “Give me the green one,” he said, gulping down the last of his breakfast.

 

* * *

 

Monday morning he was feeling better, and the bruises on his face were finally fading. Sam strolled into CID feeling rested for the first time in a very long time. Apart from Gene on Friday night, there hadn’t been other interruptions – certainly not in the future or Test Card Girl departments – and the rest of his weekend had sailed by at a nice pace.

He draped his jacket over the back of his chair, sliding his cast in the sling, and when he raised his eyes he saw Chris tilting his head sideways, intently looking at him or rather, at his arm.

“What’s that, Boss?” he finally asked.

“The Guv signed my cast,” he shrugged, “You wanna sign it too?”

Chris seemed undecided whether of not to be excited at the prospect, but mainly he just managed to look confused, “When did the Guv-”

A heavy hand landed on Sam’s shoulder, startling him, and he really should have heard Gene arriving, but the man was surprisingly sneaky sometimes.

“Sign his bloody cast, Chris,” Gene said, lighting a cigarette, “And draw some hearts and flowers, will ya, so he’ll feel pretty.”

Chris frowned, pen already in hand, “I’m not good with flowers, Guv, but I can draw ‘em little suns.”

Gene gave him a look, “You can draw ‘em little tits for all I care. Just do it so we can get on with the bloody job,” he said, dropping his hand from Sam’s shoulder and disappearing into his office.

Five minutes later Sam joined him with reports to sign and two new additions to his Cast of Fame, a dark-haired stick figure holding what looked like a notepad which presumably represented Chris, and a block-lettered, pink ‘POOFTER’ written just above his wrist – Ray, obviously, he hadn’t been able to get away in time.

Gene saw both of them but made no comment, nodding at the papers in Sam’s hand, instead, “What are those?”

“Interview reports. From,” he checked the name, “Lewis Porter, the neighbour who found Jimmy Eye’s body. And the notes I’ve transcribed from our visit to Mrs Darvell, as well.”

It had taken him most of Friday afternoon, but now he’d more or less adjusted to his cast, even if his calligraphy was still suffering from it. Gene barely spared a glance to the folder as Sam let it fall on his desk, choosing instead to fix his eyes on Sam once again. “So that’s what you were doing, instead of comin’ to the pub,” he said, almost accusingly.

“I had some free time,” Sam shrugged, “I’m on pain medication, I can’t drink alcohol anyway.”

“You have no life.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Sam muttered, his good mood rapidly dissipating.

“You’re always workin’, writin’ every itsy bitsy thing you do and double signin’ every itsy bitsy thing you write,” Gene mimed writing in the air. “Went to loo today, wiped me arse four times!”

Sam grimaced, “It’s procedure. It’s-”

“You can shove your bloody-”

“Shut up and listen!” Sam exclaimed, vehemently, “It’s _transparency_! We record everything we do or say, that’s the only way to insure that we stay afloat. Because I bet you didn’t write in your report how exactly you convinced Wavely to give us the suspect’s address last week, did you?” Gene just glared at him, “That’s what I thought. If we record everything, it’ll be there, black on white, incontrovertible!”

“So you writin’ things saves our arses,” Gene said, and his tone clearly showed his opinions on the subject.

“Well, yes. In a manner of speaking.”

Gene snorted. “’Course you do,” he leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “Never felt the need before, never had problems.”

Sam shook his head, “You’re always acting on the premise that everything will stay the same.

Nothing ever does, I should know. Just a few years, Guv, a lot of people will be involved and you don’t want to be caught in the mess, trust me on this.”

Gene pursued his lips, “You seem to know a lot of things.”

“I do,” Sam said, and suddenly felt the impulse to do something quite reckless, “I could tell you who’s gonna win the World Cup.”

“Yeah, and you’re in a coma in 2006,” Gene deadpanned.

Sam sat up straighter. “How do you-”

Gene raised his eyebrows at him. “The plonk told me. Around the time you almost got Ray blown up.”

Sam hung his head and rubbed his face, “It was _not_ an IRA bombing.”

“So it wasn’t. Still was a bomb, though.”

Sam had nothing to reply to that, because what could he say? Gene was right after all.

“So, Madame Divine. Tell me, where I’m gonna be in 2006?”

“You won’t reach 2006 if you go on drinking and smoking like that,” he replied and as if to spite him, well _definitely_ to spite him, Gene lit himself a cigarette with a wide, theatrical gesture. Sam glared at him. “And it doesn’t work like that. I didn’t even know you existed before I came here. You probably come out of an obscure part of my psyche, anyway,” he concluded, muttering. Sam kept looking at the floor, feeling like he’d finally crossed that line, he’d gone and overdone it, in hindsight it hadn’t been his brightest idea ever, and he’d had a lot of pretty stupid ideas, even before arriving here, the Guv already thought he was a nutter, but to give him the actual evidence.

Gene puffed at his cigarette for a while, “So what? I’m the overweight homophobe and you’re the nutty pain in the arse with an obsession for paperwork and science.”

Sam looked up at him and cracked a smile, “You say that as if it were a bad thing.”

“It is,” Gene continued, “because you’re still here pesterin’ me to death instead of getting’ out of ‘ere and do the bloody paperwork you love so much.”

Sam put up his hands in surrender and got up to leave.

“Oi, Tyler,” Gene called him back when he was on the threshold, “who’s gonna win the World Cup?”

Sam grinned, “Not gonna tell you, but it won’t be England.”

Gene scowled and muttered something that sounded like ‘bloody useless’, and Sam went to sit at his own desk, still grinning like a loon. Everybody in the room was probably staring at him by now, because you don’t _voluntarily_ squabble with the Guv, and most of all you don’t look happy about it later. Sam didn’t care much, though, they’d talked about the future and he was still walking around free and not in a nutty house, as Gene’d have called it. Assuming this was real, of course. Although being committed to an asylum by an hallucination had an underlying irony that could hardly be surpassed.

He was brought back by the sound of drawers being opened and closed coming from Gene’s office. Sam grinned knowingly to himself and mentally started counting.

At twenty-seven Gene’s office door burst open. “Tyler!” his Guv bellowed. “Where in the bloody hell is my Scotch?”

 

* * *

 

Two hours later he wasn’t grinning anymore and even if Gene’d never admit it, Sam was sure this was just to get back at him for the Scotch thing. Gene had arrived or rather, _stormed_ by the front desk where Phyllis was signing his cast, and without a word he’d tossed him his jacket and grabbed his collar, dragging him away while Phyllis was still writing. Her S was now a long black line that went around his forearm.

Now, in the car Sam was trying to tie his brace behind his neck, clearly an exercise in futility as he went careening against the car door when Gene went around a corner adopting a rather sharp angle, his head hitting the glass, “Bloody hell!”

Gene shot a glance at him. “Put yer seat-belt on.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Sam replied, putting his seat-belt on though, and leaving the brace to a later moment, when they weren’t doing the Rally GB anymore.

Gene kept sneaking glances at him, though, and after the third time he caught him looking sideways, Sam decided it was getting annoying, “What is it, Guv?”

Gene’s eyes shot forward and stayed fixed on the road, he pursued his lips, “Are you…alright?”

Sam frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Are you daft?”

Sam glared. “Not particularly.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Gene muttered, then louder, “well? Answer the question.”

He tried to cross his arms, forgetting once again about the cast, then gave up and settled for gripping the handle with his left hand to keep his balance. “I’m alright,” he said. “Even though sleeping is not ideal with my ribs and considering that _somebody_ kicked me out of my own bed,” he paused, sneaking a glance at Gene. Disappointingly, though, he seemed unfazed. “Not that it was much more comfortable to begin with,” he admitted finally.

The car screeched to a halt and he made to get out, but Gene grabbed his jacket by the lapels and gave a powerful tug. Sam fell back on his seat, losing his balance and almost tumbling against his Guv.

“You bloody-” he started, but Gene tugged once again, this time at his collar, and looked straight into his eyes, and that was a determined look if he’d ever seen one.

“If you utter a word of that to anyone…” he trailed off, but his grip tightened, now seriously threatening his ability to breathe. Sam shrugged his hands off and was surprised when they went easily away, willingly.

“Of course _not_ ,” he hissed, then just because he could, he added. “But next time you don’t wanna sleep alone it’s your house Guv, I bet there’re actual rooms there!”

Sam didn’t wait for a reply and got out, trying to straighten his jacket and slamming the door with more force than necessary. He started walking down the pavement, not looking back to check, but hearing the other car door slam shut. He could feel the scowl still on his face and forced himself to relax, but the Guv was really-

He stopped and waited for the other man to catch up with him.

“Was wonderin’ where you were hurryin’,” Gene said good-naturedly, reaching his side and smirking down at him.

“I don’t know, do I?” Sam snorted, and wasn’t that the truth.

“I don’t know what crawled up your jacksie, Tyler, but you should quit with all this ‘woe is me’ martyr crap. I’m gettin’ tired o’ that.”

Sam gave out an incredulous laugh, “ _You_ are getting tired? You? What about _me_?” He stepped into Gene’s space, poking a finger into his chest, but Gene batted his finger away and took a step forward himself, forcing Sam to back away.

“Shut it, Tyler! I’m willing to put up with yer babblings when we’re in private, but I won’t tolerate it while we’re working, I’m telling ya! Because you just about used up all of my patience after what ‘appened with Ray! And I’m _this_ close to give you the thumpin’ you deserve!”

“Ah! As if that’d be news!” Sam spat, face to face with him, furious, “I knew you weren’t over that! You were way too calm during the whole deal. Well, too calm for _you_.”

“One of us had to be rational!”

“Oh, right because _you_ were! Harassing Irish people just because a bomb was involved!”

“You had no proof! And yeah, there _was_ a bomb involved! In fact you were _wrong_!”

“But I was right, because it actually _wasn’t_ the IRA!”

“Ah right, you feel all nice and good because you were right-”

“It’s you that can’t seem to feel good if I’m not wrong!”

“An officer got almost killed because you wanted to prove you were right when, in fact, you _weren’t_!” Gene hissed into his face, and Sam stumbled back a bit under the force of it.

Gene was right, but Sam had been so _sure_ , positive that everything was alright, and that was the problem, wasn’t it? The fact that he was from 2006 and carried a baggage of thirty years worth of future knowledge, certainly didn’t mean he knew _everything_.

A woman frowned at them and hurried down the road carrying her shopping bags, and turning every few steps to cast worried glances in their direction. Predictably, Gene turned to check her arse, thus breaking or at least relieving a bit of the tension between them.

“Listen, Tyler,” the Guv said, turning back to him. “Because it’s the first and last time you’ll hear me saying this.”

Sam opened his mouth, but Gene gripped his arm. “Damn you, Gladys, _listen_ for once in your bloody life.”

Sam complied, shutting his mouth, but he kept glaring at him.

“You have the barmiest ideas I’ve ever heard, sometimes they work and sometimes they don’t. Now, I don’t care if they come from that future you fancy so much, or just because you hit your head once too many and things got all scrambled up in there, but-” Gene tightened his grip when he saw Sam was about to reply, “ _But_ if you’ve got one, you come to me before you go off all by yerself. There’s no place for lone rangers ‘ere and it’s not good for the team, you ignoring my authority and being all rebel like, understood? I said, _understood_?”

Sam freed himself from his grasp, “Yeah, right. _I_ am the bad influence for the team! What about _you_? You’re just about the perfect role model.”

“I’m not sayin’ you are a bad influence, I let you keep Chris after all. And Cartwright’s in the team now, isn’t she? I’m just sayin’ that if you have a problem or a hunch or whatever that crap is, you come to me and we…discuss it in private. I won’t you have you goin’ around like you’re Mr. Know-It-All when actually you know nowt!”

Sam shook his head, “ _Discuss_? That’s what you call it? I call it wallslamming.”

“Remember Tyler, very little patience left,” Gene said, narrowing his eyes and pressing his thumb and index finger together as if to illustrate the point.

“How come I should be the only one? Why don’t _you_ try compromising with me?”

“Because I’m the Guv and we do things _my_ way. Sometimes, though, I’m willing to listen to what you have to say, if it’s worth enough.”

“Generous, aren’t you,” Sam snorted.

Gene nodded, “I see we’ve come to an understanding. Good,” he took hold of Sam’s shoulder and spun him around, “Let’s go and meet Cheeky Mickey.”

“Cheeky Mickey?” Sam frowned, “You know all sorts of interesting people.”

 

* * *

 

Sam had never met Cheeky Mickey before and as far as snouts went, this one had to be most unlikely. Michael Bowley, as his full name was, looked no more than sixteen, wore clothes that were too big for him, and belonged to a courtyard playing football, rather than the street corner where they met him.

“DCI Hunt,” he greeted, then turned to Sam, “And DI Tyler.”

“Do we know each other?” Sam frowned.

“I know things,” Mickey replied, grinning in a way that might have explained his nickname, “‘S me job.”

Sam snorted sceptically, “You don’t look a day over sixteen. A bit too young, don’t you think?”

“I dunno, sir,” Mickey frowned in concentration, as if trying hard to remember something. “You got them bruises when Johnnie D pushed you right onto Tommy Raven’s car, didn’t you? Nasty bloke that one by the way, cut his stuff with the most unbelievable things.”

Sam frowned, there had been nothing on the papers about the way Raven had been arrested, “How do you-” he turned to Gene. “You told him.”

Gene shook his head, though, and Mickey smiled, “I know about that thing with Mrs. Tyler, as well. You on her husband’s side, by the way? A cousin?”

Sam stiffened. “You shut up about her!” he almost yelled, but his Guv took a step closer and glared at him. Sam put up his hand and sighed. “Alright, alright. You’re good.”

“Told you he was,” Gene smirked and seemed strangely proud of that. “Now that we’ve got your approval, Doris, can we get our arses in gear?”

Cheeky Mickey smirked at Gene’s name calling and Sam sighed again, resigned. He had no dignity anyway, apparently he was having an affair with his own mother. Without counting the kinky sex while drugged thing. He wondered if Mickey knew about that, as well.

His life had never been this… _peculiar_ in 2006.

Nor this sleazy, for that matter.

Gene nodded at the boy. “So what’ve you got for us?”

Mickey’s face became suddenly dark and he sneaked glances right and left, as if to make sure they weren’t being watched.

“Word is Jimmy Eye’s been done because he saw somethin’ he shouldn’t ‘ave.”

Gene frowned, “What do you mean?”

Mickey squinted up at him. “You spoke to Helen. You should know.”

“He just saw two men talking,” Sam said, shaking his head.

The boy nodded, “Somethin’ big is goin’ on and they want to keep it a secret.”

“What’s going on and who’s they?”

“Can’t help you there, DCI Hunt,” Mickey shrugged. “All I can give you is the address of the house Jimmy was ‘visiting’.”

Sam nodded and wrote down the address, Gene tossing the boy some quids. Mickey nodded at them, took his bike and left.

“How come he knows all that stuff?” Sam asked, as they were going back to the car.

“He has good ears and hangs out all the right places.”

Sam lingered a bit, leaning on the roof with his good arm, car door opened. “A man was murdered just because he’s seen two men talking?” he shook his head. “I don’t like this, Guv.”

"Me neither," said Gene, without looking at him, "And Mickey didn't know much. Can't be good."

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, it wasn’t good.

The morning air was cold and cutting. Sam wrapped himself tighter into his leather jacket trying to preserve some of his body heat, the right sleeve empty, flapping idly against his side. He followed his Guv as he went to speak with a young PC.

“Who found him?” Gene asked, his face dark and his voice low.

The PC nodded in the direction of a man a few feet from them, currently speaking with Chris and Annie. “A passer-by, sir.”

Gene nodded and made his way to the body, his lips pressed in a thin line, almost invisible, his face a deep scowl. Sam could do nothing but follow him in silence, his own face feeling tight.

Cheeky Mickey was sprawled on the ground face down and would have looked asleep, if not for the wound on the back of his head and the pool of blood around him.

Sam knelt next to him, inspected the wound – bullet wound – and looked for evidence, but there was nothing around or on Mickey’s body that couldn’t have come from a regular Mancunian back alley. No footprints, no defence wounds, nothing.

Sam looked up at his Guv, they had no proof but it couldn’t be a coincidence, “This is serious,” he said.

“No shit,” Gene spat.

A particularly loud cry coming from the mouth of the alley made both of them turn. There, held back by their team, was a dark-haired woman struggling to come through. Gene swore under his breath and visibly braced himself.

“That’s his mother?” Sam guessed, but Gene didn’t reply. He just gave a curt nod and made his way back to the others. Sam looked one last time at Mickey’s body, at the coagulated blood, then he stood up as well.

When he reached them, Gene was saying in the softest tone of voice Sam had ever heard him using. “You can’t go there, Mrs. Bowley.”

“He’s my baby, I jus’ want t’see him. He’s my child, my Mickey,” she pleaded, tears on her cheeks, trying to look over Gene’s shoulder, “I have to- Mr. Hunt, I-”

Annie arrived at his side and offered him a small smile. “Poor woman.”

Sam nodded and watched as Mrs. Bowley finally broke down, holding onto Gene’s arms, her forehead against his chest. Sam closed the few feet of distance between them and gently touched her shoulder, “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Bowley,” he said softly. “Maybe you could come down to the station and answer some questions?”

Annie shot him a look, but Mickey’s mother nodded and let herself be led away to one of the cars, Annie’s arm comfortingly around her shoulders.

Sam turned to Gene, he was lighting a cigarette, his hands slightly shaking.

“It’s not your fault,” he said, leaning sideways a bit.

Gene said nothing but shifted his weight on his right side, their elbows barely brushing against one another. They stood still for a few moments, then Sam moved his arm and knocked Gene’s wrist lightly with his. “We should go and check that address Mickey gave us,” he said quietly.

Gene nodded, tossed his half-smoked cigarette away and nodded again, more determined. He took a step forward and, hands on his hips, addressed everyone. “Alright, listen up, lads,” he cast a glance at Annie, “and lady. I’m really, _really_ upset right now. I want everyone who’s not a complete twat working on this case. I don’t care what you have to do, but by God get some results, because you won’t ever remember what your beds look like until this bloody bastard’s rottin’ in a cell for the rest of his bloody life. Understood?” Everyone nodded, some more convinced than others. “Good. Ray, you stay here, Tyler you’re with me,” he concluded, turning and going to the car.

“Great motivational speech, by the way,” Sam said, later.

“Shut up,” he hissed. “I’m very, very annoyed. If I get me hands on the bastard who did this…” he trailed off, but if the squeaking leather as his hands gripped the wheel and his clenched teeth were anything to go by, Sam wouldn’t have been surprised if the man who’d done this wouldn’t survive to see the trial. If they managed to catch him, of course.

“We’ll get the bastard, Tyler,” Gene said, as if reading his thoughts. “We’ll get him and mark me words when I say I’ll enjoy every kick I’m gonna put in ‘im.”

For once he didn’t comment on Gene’s methods, because this was personal and he certainly wasn’t the most objective copper when it came down to dealing with personal matters.

Sam sighed. “We have to consider the possibility that the killer may not be the same man who killed Jimmy.”

“He’s the same bastard,” Gene said, and his tone allowed for no objections.

“It’s highly probable, yes,” Sam conceded, “but we don’t have any proof of that yet. We have to keep a wide spectrum.”

Gene hit the wheel with his hand. “Both were killed the same way, and both knew too much about some big secret!”

“I know!” Sam exclaimed, “but we have to keep in mind that the two murders might have nothing to do with each other, because otherwise we have a professional killer on the loose. And frankly-”

Gene abruptly braked and Sam had frightening eye-to-eye with the dashboard, the belt tugging painfully against his chest and sparing him a flight through the windshield.

“What the-” but Gene turned wild eyes on him, “Guv?”

“ _Helen_ ,” he said and left an inch worth of tyres on the asphalt as he did a U-turn and peeled away at breakneck speed.

 

* * *

 

Everything went fine for once. When they knocked on her door Helen answered, looking fairly alright. She smiled and invited them inside to join her for breakfast, and they had to wait an hour before the PCs Gene had requested arrived. It was a _very_ long hour, and when they walked away from the house, Sam’s head felt a bit woozy.

“She gave you that recipe?” Gene asked with a smirk, before getting in the car.

Sam rubbed his face. “She did.”

“Now you know what to bring when Phyllis is havin’ her cuppa.”

“I’ve got a headache.”

“You poor little darling!”

“Sod off.”

Gene snorted and started the car.

 

* * *

 

The door swung shut hanging just by the one remaining hinge, the other perished under Gene’s vicious attack, despite Sam’s protests.

The house was empty.

Not empty as in not inhabited – even though it actually was – but empty as in, well, _empty_.

Gene sniffed, hands on his hips, as he surveyed the living room, no furniture in sight.

Sam stepped down the stairs and leant over the banister. “Nothing upstairs either,” he said, shaking his head.

“Well, bollocks,” his Guv said and he looked really gob smacked.

“We should call forensics,” Sam said, not really convinced. “Not that I think they’d find something, but…” he trailed off but Gene nodded, anyway.

Sam reached his side and mirrored his position, leaning on the wall, staring at all the emptiness in front of them.

“Makes no sense,” Gene said. “Jimmy Eye was the worst burglar ever lived, but even he couldn’t be _that_ useless and choose an empty house to break into.”

“Maybe it wasn’t when Jimmy visited.”

Gene turned to look at him. “You suggesting someone came here and took everything away so that we won’t find anything?”

Sam shrugged. “Reckon if they hired a professional killer to get rid of everyone who knew something, they could’ve done that, too,” he took out his legal pad and went over the notes. “According to Helen, Jimmy Eye was here on the 14th and was killed the night of the 17th. And we didn’t know the address until Mickey gave it to us yesterday, the 21st. They’ve had a week to get rid of everything and clean the house.”

Gene coursed loudly and Sam seconded the feeling. Seven days. Could have as well been seven years, the trail would be ice cold by now. In Sam’s time they could have gone over the flat and the bodies with a comb, and sooner or later they’d have found something, a hair, a speck of blood, DNA. But now- Sam looked down at his hands, he wasn’t even wearing gloves for God’s sake, and Gene wasn’t faring much better, his leather driving gloves hardly comparing to clean, latex ones.

Sam flipped idly the pages on his pad, waiting for Gene to decide the course of action, when suddenly he remembered something. He straightened up and leafed through the pages with his left hand.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, having found the page. “That’s what I thought!”

Gene frowned down at him and he turned the pad to let him read his notes, his Guv squinted at them, “I can’t read it, who wrote that? Chris?”

Sam grimaced a bit and studied his calligraphy. “Ah, yes,” he cleared his throat. “Anyway, you said Annie had found something at scene, what was it?”

Gene’s face cleared. “Yeah, a bit of somethin’.”

“Oh well, that clears it, then,” Sam said, but the sarcasm suffered a bit when he stumbled sideways, under the force of Gene’s pat on his shoulder.

“Let’s go, Sammy-boy,” Gene said, going back to the car, long strides and his face set in a determined scowl.

After a few tries Sam gave up trying to leave the front door in a semblance of normality and just shut it behind him as well as he could, hurrying down the steps to get in the car.

“One of these days,” he said as he buckled the belt, “You’re gonna break one door too many, and there’ll be hell to pay.”

Gene shot a glance at him. “Well, no one was gonna answer anyway.”

 

* * *

 

First thing they did when they were back at the CID was go over the reports of Cheeky Mickey’s crime scene, Gene sprawling on his chair at the desk, Sam leaning on a file cabinet behind him and Chris going to and fro, bringing reports and evidence.

“That multitasking thing you’re teaching him?” Gene said, when Chris had left for the third time, having forgotten Jimmy Eye’s autopsy report. “Not working.”

Sam sighed, “Last year all of your evidence would have been spattered with his lunch. I’d say this is an improvement.”

Gene stilled and raised his eyes from the folder in his hands, he didn’t turn to look at Sam, though. “A year.”

“Sorry, Guv,” Sam frowned. “What?”

“It’s been a year since you arrived,” Gene said, turning to look at him with unreadable eyes.

Sam did the math and whistled, “Uh, yeah, actually. Will be a year next week,” he said, blinking, it didn’t feel real.

A _year_. He was in 1974 now, had been for quite a while. How hadn’t he noticed the days, the weeks, the _months_ passing by? He wondered how long had passed in 2006, it was a bit like dog years actually.

Coma years.

He shook his head to clear his mind and looked up at Gene. “Thinking about the good old times when I wasn’t here, Guv? Everything much simpler, eh?”

There was something in Gene’s eyes he couldn’t decipher, then his Guv snorted and went back to his file. Sam waited a bit to see if he would say something, then went back to his own reports.

Not that there would be anything new from yesterday, or last week.

“You piss me off, Tyler, more often than not,” Gene suddenly said, “but don’t think, not even for a moment, that I’d rather you weren’t ‘ere.”

Sam gaped at him and almost jumped in surprise when Chris came back, carrying a folder in his hands.

“Doctor’s doin’ the autopsy on Cheeky Mickey,” he informed them, chewing noisily on a gum. “Nothin’ wonky looking, except for the, uh,” he sneaked a glance at Gene who glared darkly at him, Chris swallowed nervously and stumbled back a bit, even if he was standing still.

Sam nudged Gene’s foot with his boot to get him to lay off Chris and cleared his throat. “Except for the gunshot wound?”

Chris nodded at him. “Right, uh,” he put the folder on the desk as if it was burning his fingers. “Here’s Jimmy Eye’s autopsy report.”

“Thanks Chris, you can- No, actually wait,” Chris looked at him expectantly. “Annie found something at Jimmy Eye’s crime scene…” he trailed off, seeing Chris was now frowning, confused.

“Smallish bit of paper,” Gene intervened. “Coloured, shiny.”

Chris nodded. “Oh, right, Guv. I’ll get it,” he said and off he was again.

Sam observed Gene, and wanted so badly to ask about what he’d said just a minute before, but the moment was gone. And maybe he was even a little afraid, because Sam could’ve said the exactly same thing regarding Gene. He had more or less adjusted to the seventies, he still felt like an outsider, but at least he didn’t feel like he was an alien. And suddenly a year had gone without him noticing, and maybe he wanted to go back to 2006, but this time was starting to feel like home, as well. He’d bought new wallpaper that didn’t look seizure-inducingly ugly last week, and he’d planned to put it up on the week-end, only to postpone indefinitely until his arm wasn’t in a cast anymore. He was saving money to buy himself a real bed, he’d started buying new records – well, new for the _seventies_ – he was thinking about going to some concerts.

The past year had been a lot of things, crappy, unbelievable, insane, funny, but one of the best of his life, as well, he felt like he’d really _lived_ it.

Sam smiled slightly. “You piss me off, too, Guv,” he said. Gene said nothing but nodded, because they were also on the same wavelength more often than not.

The companionable silence lasted only for a few minutes more, until Chris arrived again and handed them a small plastic bag containing a no more than half an inch wide scrap of paper. Sam thanked him and Chris left.

They stared at the bag, Sam leaning over Gene’s shoulder and snatching it away. He turned it in his hands, tilted his head on one side, then on the other.

“Well, this looks like…” he frowned.

“Havana. It’s a brand of cigars.”

Sam glared at him, “I knew that.”

Gene nudged his cast, smirking, “Sure you did.”

Sam ignored him, “They’re expensive.”

“And very hard to find.”

“Did Jimmy Eye smoke cigars?”

Gene shook his head. “No. Couldn’t have afforded these, anyway.”

“Must belong to the killer, then.”

“Or to anyone else that could’ve walked there.”

Sam turned to look at him. “Aren’t you Mr. Positive today?” Gene just sniffed at him. “Right. Anyway, it rained the day before Jimmy Eye was killed and this would have been washed away.”

Gene sighed and seemed to consider it. “Well, it’s not like we’re goin’ anywhere, might as well try with this.”

Sam nodded. “How many shops you reckon sell this brand?”

“A few.”

“I’ll get the list ready,” he said, lips pressed in a determined line.

Gene took the back from his hands. “Leave it to Chris, you’re buying me dinner.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at him. “The missus is away a whole lot these days, isn’t she?”

Gene defiantly raised his chin. “And that’s your business how?”

 

* * *

 

They’d decided against going back to the CID, as it was already late anyway, so Gene had driven Sam home and they were now parked, just outside Sam’s flat.

Sam smacked his lips like a cat, the flavour of their dinner still lingering pleasantly in his mouth. He sneaked a glance at Gene, and he too seemed satisfied.

“So, Guv, liked it?” he asked, maybe a bit too smugly.

Gene shrugged. “Wasn’t bad.”

Sam accepted that and opened the door, but lingered and Gene turned towards him. “What is it, Tyler?”

“Fancy a drink, Guv?” Gene gave him a deadpan stare and Sam snorted. “Right. Come on up, then.”

In hindsight it’d been both the most idiotic and the best thing Sam could have possibly done in his life. Well, to be fair, it wasn’t like it was just Sam’s fault – or merit – after all.

But something happened, with Gene holding the glasses steady, while Sam clumsily poured Scotch left-handed, he wasn’t sure what exactly, but there was a meeting of glances and a hesitation. And Sam must have seen something in Gene’s eyes, something that made him close his eyes, tilt his head slightly backward, and he waited, thinking that maybe it had been a trick of the light and he was making a fool of himself. But there was warm breath on his face and he inhaled the scent of Indian food and cigarettes, and he sighed, in frustration or relief, he didn’t know.

He expected a kiss, but Gene’s lips slid down his cheek, to his neck, they were dry and he could feel them slightly trembling against his skin, but there were no kisses. Sam suddenly moved, circling Gene’s neck with his left arm and tugging him forward, his hand still holding the bottle of Scotch, his cast now squeezed between them. Gene’s hands went to his hips to steady them, and he too was still holding the glasses, the smooth surface cold through Sam’s shirt, but the fingers there burning hot.

Sam buried his face into Gene’s neck, against the coat he hadn’t taken off thinking he’d be staying just for a drink, and he breathed in his Guv’s scent, the cigarettes, the Scotch, that impossible seventies cologne – what was it? Old Spice? – and he sighed, gliding his lips over the warm skin, the tip of this tongue barely tracing patterns. Gene made a sound and turned his head and Sam turned sideways, too, and their mouths brushed against one another, but Gene continued his journey along his other cheek, once again down his neck. Sam gasped quietly, but it echoed loudly in the room, the only sound their deep, laboured breaths.

Then Gene took a step backwards, slowly trailing his hands upwards, to rest on Sam’s neck, gently, the glasses he was still gripping now warm having absorbed Sam’s body heat. Gene leaned his forehead against his and Sam finally opened his eyes, looking into glassy blue ones, their lips barely an inch apart, sharing the same air.

“ _Sam_ ,” Gene whispered, his voice cracking, almost breaking Sam’s heart.

He let go of him, then, and left, abandoning the glasses on the shelf above his bed. Sam walked to his bed and sat down hard, the bottle of Scotch still in his hands.

Sam couldn’t understand really, and he’d tried, he’d tried so _hard_. Couldn’t figure it out, though. He knew it was attraction, he was open-minded enough to admit it, he noticed blokes sometimes, nothing to say there. He just couldn’t understand this… _intensity_ between them. He’d never use the word attractive to describe Gene Hunt, but his body seemed to think differently.

Even leaving out external appearances – which were far from ideal – his Guv was a sexist and racist bastard, and okay, man of his time and all that, but that couldn’t explain the rudeness, the violent behaviour, the callousness.

And yeah, he was loyal and sometimes funny as well, and he seemed to trust Sam implicitly, even with all of his screw-ups and ‘nutty moments’ as Gene called them, and-

Sam rubbed his face tiredly. “Bloody hell,” he muttered against his fingers.

It was attraction alright.

 

* * *

 

The morning after, Sam spent what it felt like hours staring at Gene’s office so hard he was afraid he’d wore out his eyes, willing himself to stand up and confront him and get rid of this feeling of impending doom hovering in the air.

He frowned and turned his head to survey the room, sure he’d heard something, then he realized it had been the faint beeping of hospital machines. How long had it been since he’d last heard anything from 2006? He racked his brain, but couldn’t remember. What did that mean? Did that mean he was slipping deeper into the coma? Did it mean he was dying? And if so, what would be the repercussions here, now?

Chris arrived at his desk, interrupting his thoughts, and gave him a sheet of paper with what looked like addresses written on it. “It’s the shops.”

Sam frowned at him. “What?”

“The list you asked me for, Boss, the shops that sell that brand of cigars in Manchester.”

“Right, thanks Chris,” he said, taking the sheet and standing up, having finally obtained a good excuse to go and see Gene.

In the end everything resolved in a kind of anti-climax, Gene barely glancing at him as he went on shaving. “Hey, Gladys, don’t you look lovely today, eh?”

Sam wasn’t really sure that was a compliment, maybe because he’d seen his face in the mirror that morning and he looked quite far from lovely, the sleepless night adding to the stress of the latter days.

“Uh,” Sam started rather stupidly, because he’d braced himself for everything, from Gene beating him to a bloody pulp to Gene ignoring him, but he hadn’t expect this, he hadn’t expected normal behaviour. “Chris gave me the list.”

Gene cleaned his face with a towel that had seen much better days. “What list?”

Gene had missed a spot just under his ear, and Sam couldn’t take his eyes off it. “Uh, the shops that sell those cigars.”

His Guv nodded and tightened the knot on his tie a bit. “Alright, then,” he said, throwing the towel on the desk and grabbing his coat.

Sam took the towel and went to clean the white spot, Gene stiffened at his sudden move and Sam met his eyes, not knowing what he’d read in them, but he was surprised when he saw them widening, burning hot.

He swallowed. “You missed a spot,” and his hand trembled slightly as he wiped at it.

Gene shrugged his coat on and gestured for Sam to go first, Sam cleared his throat and took a step towards the door. It might have been just his imagination, but a hand brushed at the small of his back, gently prompting him forward, and Sam almost jumped.

Bloody hell. “Normal behaviour, my arse,” he muttered.

“Sorry, what?”

“Nothing,” Sam said and Gene shot him a glance, then there was that hand again, more noticeable now, and Gene was still looking at him, and they were standing there with the door open, for God’s sake.

“Well?” Gene asked, tilting his head towards the door, but Sam knew he wasn’t referring to that, and damn him but he _nodded_. Gene grinned. “Alright.”

“Alright,” Sam repeated and went to his desk to fetch his jacket.

What the fuck were they doing? Alright, he’d said, _alright_.

Jesus.

 

* * *

 

The list wasn’t actually that long, only a few names in fact, Gene and Sam taking one half, Ray and Annie the other while Chris was left in charge to oversee the still ongoing door to door enquiries about Cheeky Mickey’s death. In his enthusiasm to get started with his task as quickly as possible he stumbled into a chair, knocked over Bill’s reports from his desk and almost poked out a young PC’s eye.

Sam was still smiling when he got in the car, shaking his head.

Then suddenly he was not, the cold knot from earlier back to squeezing his gut once again.

He sneaked a glance at Gene and thought what the hell, the worst he could do was punch him and he already did that on weekly basis, anyway. “So, Guv, what was all that, back in the office?”

Gene didn’t reply for a long time, and when he did it betrayed nothing about what he was thinking. “Not here, Sam.”

“Why? No one’s here but us, and anyway you seemed to have no problems performing in front of an audience, earlier.”

Gene’s head turned sharply, his hand shooting forward, and for a moment Sam thought he was really going to punch him in the face, here in the car. The hand stopped, though, and Gene pointed a menacing finger at him, his face set in a snarl, angry eyes shining. “Not _now_ , then. Not when we’re working,” he hissed, stabbing the air between them with his index finger.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Once again, you seemed to have no problem earlier.”

Gene looked like he was about to say something, but relaxed and lowered his arm, seeming to deflate and it felt unnatural to Sam. Gene Hunt just didn’t walk away from arguments, especially if he didn’t have the last word. Of course, it could all be a ruse to mess with Sam’s head, but when he looked at him, though, he instantly knew it was nothing of the sort.

“What is it, Gene?” he quietly asked, after a while.

Gene continued to drive as if he hadn’t heard him and only when they stopped – barely – at a red light did he reply, his eyes on the road, his hands squeezing the wheel. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

Sam nodded and fixed his eyes on the pavement beyond the side window. “Me neither, Guv,” he said, then added displaying a boldness he didn’t really feel. “But I’m willing to see where it goes, if you are.”

Gene seemed to consider that, then snorted, but said nothing, and after a few minutes Sam leaned back against the seat, feeling like he’d eaten something gone bad.

And yet, back at the CID, Gene had seemed so sure, so… _daring_.

The tyres screeched and the car came to a halt, bumping against the sidewalk, half in and half out of the road. Sam just groaned, refraining once again from commenting on Gene’s constant breaking of the road rules.

“You make it sound so _easy_ ,” Gene said suddenly, and Sam’s hand froze on the handle.

“It’s not, Guv,” he whispered, because this was 1974 and gays were still poofters and even for him it was hard to adjust to the idea of being attracted to a man, much less Gene Hunt.

“That has never stopped you before, though, has it,” he finished, throwing open the door.

“This is serious, Tyler!” Gene exclaimed.

Sam looked at him over the hood, “I know.”

Gene slammed his fist on the metal, then glared at him, “I’m _married_.”

“What? You’re afraid I’m gonna ask you to divorce?” Sam snorted, but Gene’s eyes widened. “Jesus, Guv, I’d never want that!”

“Right, because having an affair with me DI, a _bloke_ , is so much better!”

Sam gaped at him, then shook his head in disbelief. “From what I’ve gathered it’s not like you snub chasing the occasional skirt, Guv,” he said.

“Yeah, ‘occasional’ and ‘skirt’ bein’ the keywords there,” Gene replied, leaving Sam speechless.

Gene walked around the car and reached his side, looking forward, his lips pursued. “Let’s go check that shop, eh?” he said, nodding to the sign.

Sam wiped his mouth and nodded.

They were just a few feet away when Phyllis’ voice came over the radio.

“Come through Alpha One,” Gene said, leaning over the open window and grabbing the phone.

“Cheeky Mickey’s mum is here, Guv,” Phyllis said, “she’s asking for you.”

Gene sighed and rubbed his face.

“You go, Guv,” Sam said. “I’ll stay here, talk to the owner.”

Gene considered that, but nodded at Sam. “Roger that, Alpha One, tell her I’m comin’. Over,” he put the receiver back into the car and looked at Sam. “Sure you can handle it, Gladys?”

“I’ll take a cab to the CID,” he said, then considered. “Better make it a bus. I’ll see you later.”

Gene nodded and got in without a word, the car peeling away even before Sam had the time to lean away from it.

 

* * *

 

The door jingled when Sam entered, and the only man in the shop – the owner presumably – turned to greet him with a smile.

He was around forty, average looking, nothing remarkable about him, except maybe for the purplish shirt he was wearing, but that was more a seventies thing, Sam figured.

“How can I help you?” he said, still smiling politely.

As soon as the man – Gavin Kemp according to the files – saw his badge, his whole demeanour changed. “I know nunthin’!” he exclaimed.

“I didn’t even say-”

Kemp ran behind the counter and hid behind it, in a rather childish way, actually. Sam had to lean over it to see him properly, now sitting in a corner and cowering.

Sam frowned, confused, “I’m here just to ask some questions, Mr. Kemp.”

But the other man went on, loudly begging. “Please! I don’t know nuthin’! It was me brother-in-law, he said it was an easy thing, that he wasn’t gonna go to the police! But I knew we was goin’ to be in trouble!”

“Your brother-in-law?” Sam repeated. “What has he got to do with anything?”

Kemp raised his head to look at him, he frowned, then slowly stood up, to lean on the counter, his position mirroring Sam’s. “You’re not here for Gamble’s stolen car?”

Sam blinked at him, “I’m here about a _cigar_.”

Kemp swallowed, “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_.”

 

* * *

 

Gene reached him, just outside the Lost and Found. “Car theft, huh?” he puffed at his cigarette. “We really should let you out in the city.”

Sam ignored him and cleared his voice, reading from the file in his hands, “Gavin Kemp, 42, admitted to having to do with the disappearance of one Nicholas Gamble’s car. Daniel Alexander, Kemp’s brother-in-law, currently unreachable, is presumed to be the mind behind the theft.”

Gene snorted. “If you could call it that.”

Sam ignored him and went on, “Alexander has a nice record-”

Gene snatched the file from him. “Murder?”

Sam dropped his hand and rolled his eyes, “No. Car theft, car theft and, oh, guess what? _Car theft_. There’s also a robbery or two in there, just for the sake of variety.”

Gene closed the folder and nodded to the closed door. “They did it, case closed. Why’re we wastin’ time here, then?”

“Because,” Sam said, taking the folder back, “I hadn’t had the time to ask about the cigar.”

“Why?”

“He hid behind the counter.”

His Guv looked at him for a moment, then shook his head, “I swear, before you arrived here, some things just didn’t happen.”

“You’re telling me.”

Gene threw the door open and strode in. “Hiya, Gavin!” he exclaimed and Kemp jumped and almost fell out of his chair.

Sam started the tape recorder and sat down, laying the pad and his pencils down. “So, Mr. Kemp,” he began, only to be interrupted by Gene.

“Now, listen to me, Gavin,” he said, low and menacingly, “I don’t give a shit ‘bout your little, thieving self, what I want is to catch a murderin’ bastard.”

Gavin was absolutely terrified by now, blinking his widened eyes rapidly and progressively leaning back as Gene leant forward. They remained like that for a long minute, until Gavin squeaked and squeezed his eyes shut.

Gene tossed some photos on the table and Sam recognized Jimmy Eye and Cheeky Mickey. “You can’t do this, Guv,” he hissed, moving forward to gather them, but his wrist was seized in a crushing grip.

“Look at the damn photos, Gavin!” Gene yelled, slamming his palm on the table and making Kemp yelp, he opened his eyes, though.

Only to close them again and covering his face with his hands, letting out another squeak. “The bastard who killed these people bought a cigar in your shop. Havana. Do you know who that is?”

Kemp didn’t answer and just shook his head. “It was just a bloody car!”

Gene shot up, his chair falling back, and Sam had had enough. He gathered the photos as well as he could and he hooked Gene’s arm with his cast, tugging him outside.

“Just what the hell’s your problem, Guv!” he exclaimed as soon as they were outside.

Gene paced to and fro. “The cigar came from Kemp’s shop.”

Sam shook his head. “How can you be so sure?”

“Ray and Cartwright found nothing,” he replied, “It’s _him_.”

“Or it could be from one of the other shops on our list!” Sam exclaimed.

“I’ve got a hunch.”

“Yeah, right,” Sam rubbed his eyes. “And even if it’s him, you can’t do that, he’s got nothing to do with the murders! He just sells cigars!”

“And steals cars on his spare time, apparently.”

Sam hung his head and leant back against the door, “I know this is a hard case, Guv, but going off like that certainly won’t help.” Beside him, Gene lit a cigarette. “How did it go with Mickey’s mother?” Sam asked, softly.

Gene paused on his drag, then released cigarette smoke slowly. “She lost it when she saw the body.”

Sam nodded and said nothing.

They stood there in silence, Gene calmly smoking, then Sam’s hand went to the knob. “You alright now?”

Gene nodded, “I’ll be as delicate as if he were a bloody baby, Tyler.”

Twenty minutes and a piece or two of thrown furniture later they had a name, Greg Duval.

“Well,” Sam said, staring down at the letters on his pad, black on white. “Never heard of him. You?”

Gene shook his head, frowning. “No idea.”

 

* * *

 

Sam leaned forward on the bar, almost folding around his Scotch. “So, what’s the word so far, Guv?”

Gene was sitting beside him, his back to the bar, his eyes carefully going over the rest of his team, sitting at the tables, drinking and playing poker. He sniffed. “Nothing for now,” he said, taking a sip from his glass. “Wouldn’t hold my breath, though. Everyone’s quiet.”

Sam nodded and turned his head to look at him. “After what’s happened to Cheeky Mickey, I don’t really blame them.”

Gene emptied his glass and slammed it on the counter, gesturing for Nelson to come over with a refill. Sam watched as he drained his glass once more and when it was clear he wasn’t going to stop soon, he grabbed his wrist and took his glass away.

“We’ve got to work tomorrow,” he said. “And I’d rather have your usual charming self than a hung-over cranky bastard.”

Gene frowned at him. “An’ where’s the difference?”

“You stink less.”

Gene snorted and since he had no glass anymore, he took Sam’s instead and thrust it in Nelson’s direction. “Dying of thirst here!”

“Look, Guv,” Sam started, determined, snatching away the now refilled glass and turning so that his body was between Gene and the Scotch. Behind the counter, Nelson was standing with an amused expression and his arms crossed over his chest, and when Sam looked at the others, everyone was watching the scene with great interest.

“You bloody-” Gene grunted, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him around, but Sam was faster and dodged the hands that came for the glass. He used the momentum to twirl both of them around and, leaving the glass on the counter, he pushed Gene in the direction of the backdoor.

A moment later they were standing outside, in the cold evening air, Sam with hand on his hip, barring the way back inside, and Gene blinking down at him, “For the life of me, Tyler, I have no idea what the hell just happened,” he said, and promptly took a sip out of one of his hip flasks.

Sam groaned loudly. “You’re hopeless.”

Gene smacked his lips with a rather satisfied air and offered the flask to him. Giving up, Sam accepted, but before he could give it back, his Guv cursed in rage and started kicking the empty crates stashed against the wall.

Panting, Gene leaned back against the wall, and Sam reached his side, leaning against the wall as well, on his left shoulder, though, so that he could look at him.

“We’ll get him, Guv,” he said, after a while.

Gene snorted and shook his head.

“We’ll get him,” Sam repeated, more convinced. “He’s sure of himself and because of that he’ll make a mistake.”

Gene smiled slightly, but it was kind of bitter. “And we’ll be there to kick his arse, won’t we?”

Sam nodded, “Yeah,” he replied, then after several minutes because nothing else was coming. “You should go back inside.”

“What about you?”

Sam shrugged, “I’m gonna head home.”

Gene nodded but didn’t move and Sam, not knowing what to do, closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the wall with a sigh, the cold surface a welcome relief for his now ever-present headache. The sudden touch of a cold hand against his neck startled him and his eyes flew open.

Gene was looking at his own hand on Sam’s neck as if he couldn’t believe it was there, the thumb brushing against his jaw, Sam breathed. “Guv,” he said.

“Shut up, Sam, or I won’t be able to-” and then Gene kissed him, right then, in the open, and Sam wondered how much had it cost him, how much-

Sam moaned quietly and opened his mouth wider, meeting Gene’s tongue with his, sliding over it, his hand tugging down at his shoulders, Gene’s hands at his neck and around his hips. He stumbled back a bit and the kiss broke briefly, only to be started again as Gene blindly followed him, pressing him against the wall.

It wasn’t that cold anymore.

When Gene’s hand groped down his front and settled on his crotch, though, Sam gasped and pushed at his chest, creating more space between them and effectively breaking the kiss.

“What?” Gene frowned. “Don’t you like this?” he asked and gave a tentative squeeze.

Sam gasped, his knees almost buckling. It had taken Gene a bit to come to terms with this, but once done he apparently had no qualms about having sex in public with his male DI.

“Not _here_ ,” Sam said, pushing at him so that he could come away from the wall and stand straighter.

“Where then? _Inside_?”

Sam rearranged his clothes and adjusted his trousers so that his erection wouldn’t show much. “I’m going home,” he said, and at Gene’s frown he clarified. “You’re welcome to join me whenever you want.”

Gene grinned wolfishly at him and Sam laughed softly, feeling light-hearted for once. “See you later?” he asked, handing back the hip flask.

“You can bet yer scrawny arse on that, Gladys,” Gene replied, taking the proffered flask from his hand and heading back inside.

“And no kicking my door down!” Sam called out to him.

Gene just waved at him and disappeared inside.

Sam turned the corner and disappeared from 1974.


	2. for ever and ever

**part two : for ever and ever**

 

Sam grimaced as he rubbed his left thigh, feeling the soreness in his bones. A year after the accident and six months after he’d awaken from the coma and he still was relegated to desk duty, and when his leg ached liked that he remembered why.

The screen of his mobile blinked, reminding him that he had several messages in the voicemail, it was probably the department shrink – _consultant_ , he corrected himself – calling to ask whether he’d disappeared. Or maybe it was Maya.

He sighed as the messages started, one was from his mum, inviting him to dinner on Friday, the second was from Maya. “David called me, he wonders where the hell have you gone to, you missed your appointment last week.”

So it was Maya calling about the shrink, then. _David_. Apparently they were on first name basis. Sam still called him Doctor Scott, except in his head, where he was just a ‘bloody quack’. He smiled slightly, as far as he was concerned hearing Gene Hunt’s voice in his head was way better than a creepy girl with a clown.

Sam let his eyes roam over the office, spotting Maya working bent over some paperwork, as she went on into his ear, “This has to end, Sam, we can’t keep having all the serious conversations over your voicemail, I’m not-” the voice got cut off as the message ended.

The last message was from Maya, as well, 'bloody voicemail!' was all it said, Sam’s smile widened. He deleted all the messages, composed Maya’s number and watched as she picked her phone up and, realizing who it was, sent him a glare across the room.

She answered, though. “What?”

“You free tonight?”

“Why?”

“I was wondering if you’d like to come over for dinner,” he said, looking at the screensaver, but feeling Maya’s eyes still on him. “We could…talk.”

Not like he hadn’t done enough of that. As soon as he’d woken up he’d talked to doctors, psychologists, psychiatrists and so on, and everyone had said the same thing, that it hadn’t been real, that somehow he had projected his insecurities and dreams, creating a place where he could feel important, indispensable.

Maya sighed into his ear. “Talk? Sam, you’ve called me on the phone when you could have _walked_ here.”

“My leg hurts.”

He moved the mouse to clear the screensaver and his desktop appeared. There was a folder down in the right corner that kept on haunting him. It was full of names and addresses and case files, mostly digital copies of paper documents, since the automated archive hadn’t been active in the ‘70s and ‘80s.

“Sam?” Maya’s voice said into his ear and Sam was jolted back to reality, a vague sense of dejà-vu making him uncomfortable. He looked up and she was frowning at him, seeming undecided whether to come over or not.

“No, stay there, I’m alright,” he said, hastily.

Maya was right, but for all this time he hadn’t been able to even look at her without feeling guilty, he still loved her, but the Sam Tyler that had woken up from the coma was not the Sam Tyler that had fallen into it, not anymore. He couldn’t actually tell if he had changed for the better or the worse, but the fact remained that he had changed, he was _different_ now. All he’d seen, heard, felt during that year – that _impossible_ year – maybe he’d only dreamed it, maybe it hadn’t been real, but he’d _experienced_ it. He carried that year on his shoulders and it weighted heavily, but it was a welcome burden, and he could see the effects it had on him in the mirror, every morning. He’d grown sideburns, he wore his shirts with the collar opened a few buttons, he’d even bought a leather jacket.

Maybe it had all been a flight of fancy, but it had _been_ nevertheless, and now Sam couldn’t look at Maya, feel her hands gently stroking his back, kiss her lips without wishing they were bigger hands, lips tasting of Scotch and cigarettes, wider shoulders.

“So dinner, tonight?” he asked again.

But Maya’s answer got lost when his ears unconsciously focused on another sound, a voice to be exact. He murmured some excuses to Maya and almost dropped the phone in his haste to close the conversation.

“You could be Harold bleedin’ Wilson for all I care, this makes no sense!”

The gradually louder bellows were starting to attract attention, and Sam was trembling, shaking even, because this wasn’t possible, this- But the voice was _his_ and when he walked into the hallway, it was _him_ , he was _here_.

In three strides Sam reached the two men and rescued the young, and by now slightly terrified, officer by grabbing Gene Hunt’s forearm and dragging him away.

 

* * *

 

The door of the photocopier room slammed shut, and when Sam turned around to face Gene the other man was looking at him with big, round eyes. Not that Sam wasn’t doing his own impression of a goldfish as he gaped at his- at his Guv. In 1973. What the hell was he doing here, now, in 2007? Was it still 2007? Yes, he could feel the weight of his mobile phone in his pocket.

Gene looked exactly the same, his clothes the only thing updated to the 21st century.

They stood there for a good minute, breathless, looking at each other from head to toe, appraising, considering.

Then they spoke at the same time. “You’re dead.”

Sam blinked, rubbed his eyes, kept them squeezed shut for a while then reopened them. Nope, Gene was still there.

He gave him a look. “Are you quite finished?”

Sam shook his head. “How,” he stopped, his hand hovering between them, as if afraid to touch, “What are you doing here, Guv?” he whispered finally, dropping the hand.

“Hell if I know,” Gene shrugged. “One minute I was nickin’ a bastard, the next I’m in the loo, with these papers in me hand.”

Gene shoved several crumpled pages in his hands – God, he _was_ real – and he was able to catch a glimpse. They were transfer papers, from _Hyde_.

Jesus.

“Gene, this is-” he started, then he saw Gene reaching for a cigarette and he snatched it from his lips. “No smoking area.”

Gene frowned deeply and begrudgingly put the packet away. “I’m not gonna like this, am I?” he said and then looked at Sam, throwing his words back at him. “Surprise me, what year is this?”

“2007, Guv. Almost lunch time. I’m having Indian.”

“Smart arse.”

 

* * *

 

Gene stared at his glass of water as if it was about to do something really nasty to him, like poison him.

“This,” he said at last, “is water.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Nothing escapes your keen investigative senses.”

Gene glared at him. “Why am I having water? Why are you making me have _water_?”

“No drinking on the clock,” Sam replied. “I could have ordered you a Diet Coke, but I don’t think you’d have liked that. Doesn’t go with the food, anyway.”

Gene poked at his food, unconvinced.

Sam nodded at him, his mouth full of spicy Indian food. “’S good, trust me.”

Gene took a bite and munched carefully, then he shrugged and shovelled more food into his mouth.

“What did you mean earlier?” he asked, between bites. “When you said I was dead.”

Sam scratched his forehead and cleared his voice, “After- When I-”

“Spill it, Tyler.”

Sam nodded. “Well. When I was able to, I did some research, on your _our_ team,” he looked up at Gene, he had all his attention. “I found everyone’s addresses. They’re all retired, except Chris. And you,” Sam lowered his eyes. “You died in 1975, pursuing a robber. He shot you.”

Gene sniffed, but said nothing.

“You got a commendation, though. Posthumously, of course.”

“Good for me, then,” Gene grumbled, then patted himself down and came up with a pack of cigarettes.

Sam shook his head. “You can’t smoke in here.”

Gene stopped with the cigarette halfway to his mouth, then put it back in the packet with an irritated gesture. “I bloody hate this place,” he hissed, the cigarettes disappearing in one of his pockets.

Sam smirked at him. “So now you see my point when I said I hated 1973.”

Gene shot him a look. “Maybe, but I’ve got a right to. What kind of place is so cruel as to deny a bloke his booze and his fags? That’s hell, I tell you,” he frowned, thoughtfully. “You don’t suppose I’m in hell or in whatsit – Valhalla – do ya?”

“Valhalla is the Viking’s heaven, Guv,” Sam corrected. “You’d probably like it. All those Valkyries.”

“Whatever.”

He crossed his arms and leant back. “It’s not hell, because I’m here and I wouldn’t deserve it.”

“Bloody sure of yourself, are ya?”

Sam smiled and was about to go back to his own lunch, but made the mistake of looking up at Gene and froze on the spot, his fork halfway to his mouth.

Gene looked virtually the same, the only different things were his clothes, and for a second it was like being back in ‘73, just one of the occasional meals they used to share sometimes.

Sam was familiar with the nostalgia and that feeling of loss he’d experienced since he’d been back, since he’d woken up. But seeing Gene again after all this time was like being punched in the gut.

He choked, and hastily put down the fork to drink some water.

Gene looked up at him, frowning, but he shook his head. “Nothing,” he hastily got up. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

He didn’t open as much as crashed into the gents door, going straight away to the washbasins, opening the faucet.He splashed his face with cold water and leant forward, his forehead almost touching the mirror, he took a deep breath and braced himself. Until now he’d acted as if in trance or shock, but now the whole situation was coming to crash down on him.

It was only a moment, but it almost overwhelmed him, gripping him with a force that left him breathless, an avalanche bringing back memories of the office smelling of smoke and sweat, of Annie, smiling and sweet, of Chris, of Ray, of the mad car races in the Cortina, of _Gene_ , of-

Gene was _here_.

Sam rubbed his face, willing the dampness from his eyes away – he _wasn’t_ going to cry – then washed his face once again, before reaching for a paper towel.

“It makes no sense,” he muttered against the rough tissue.

“Nope,” said Gene, catching him by surprise.

He turned and there he was, leaning against the wall next to the door, he hadn’t heard him enter. Sam shook his head to clear it, then blinked at Gene. “Are you _really_ here?” he asked again.

Gene gave him a look, then fished a cigarette out and lit it.

“You can’t-” Sam started, but the glare Gene sent his way stopped him. “Okay, but just one.”

“So,” Gene began, after a couple of drags. “Mind tellin’ me what exactly happened? Back in 1974, I mean.”

Sam leant back against the sink and scratched the back of his head. “After we-”

“When you left the pub,” Gene cut him off. “We went to your flat but you never got there, did you?”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t remember much. I was actually hoping you could tell me something. Anything.”

Gene looked straight at him, but Sam had to avert his eyes after a few moments. He was about to start talking, to say anything at all just to break the heavy, uncomfortable silence, when Gene spoke. “At first I thought you’d chickened out,” he said and when Sam glanced up at him he was staring at his shoes, his black, shiny 2007 shoes. “Which was rich, since you’d been pesterin’ me to death with the whole… _thing_.”

“But?”

“But then you didn’t show up for work, and I thought- well, if he’d killed a kid, what was to stop him from killin’ a copper?”

Sam swallowed. He hadn’t lied to Gene, he really didn’t remember much about that night or the following days, everything around him happening in a blur as he was suspended between two realities. “I remember being hit from behind,” he said. “And then…only vague images, I must have been drugged or something.”

“You should be used to it by now.”

“Yeah, right,” he snorted. “Thank God that shit didn’t carry over when I- woke up.”

Gene nodded. “Well, we were waiting for your body to pop up somewhere. Instead I received a package.”

Sam frowned. “A package?”

“It said-” Gene stopped, and his cigarette trembled slightly on the way to his mouth. “Doesn’t matter, the message was clear enough, I had to drop the case or you died.”

“Was it-” he cleared his throat. “Was it handwritten?”

“Typed. And we tried every single trick in your book, but we came up with nothing. We even knocked on every door from the Railway Arms to your flat, to ask if anyone had heard or seen anything. Did no good, though.”

Sam nodded thoughtfully, then. “What did the message say, Gene?”

“It was your badge, with a note attached to it,” Gene sniffed. “‘It’s going to be his ear next, you know what to do.’”

“Jesus, Guv.”

“Yeah, well,” Gene tossed the butt on the floor, carelessly. “I dropped the case.”

“What?!” Sam burst out. “You- I looked at the case file, Gene. It was filed because of the lack of evidence! But it didn’t go like that, did it? I can’t believe you played right into their game!”

In a sudden fit of temper Gene pulled away from the wall and was right into his personal space in three, long strides, menacing and looming over him, just like old times.

“What was I supposed to do?” he hissed into his face. “I wanted you back as a whole, not in itsy-bitsies like a kiddies puzzle!”

Sam looked away, ashamed and unable to bear the raw anger he had seen in Gene’s eyes. “Sorry, Gene, I-”

“Well,” Gene’s voice was quieter. “I figured we were gonna nick the bastard once you were back.”

“So you stalled the case,” Sam nodded.

“So I did. And it wasn’t like we had any leads, anyway. Or evidence for that matter,” Gene muttered. “Cheeky Mickey’s mum wasn’t happy at all, though.”

“What happened then?” Sam prompted, even if he knew the answer.

“We waited,” Gene said. “After two weeks we started looking for a body.”

Sam drew in a shuddering breath and awkwardly patted Gene’s shoulder, and when his hand wasn’t shrugged off, he squeezed down gently. “Guv, I-”

Then Gene exploded. “A year, Sam! A year we spent looking for you,” he was almost yelling by now, “but of course we had no chance of finding you, did we?” and then his voice cracked in the end. “Not a bloody chance.”

“No,” Sam whispered, his arms pulling Gene to him, his eyes burning. “I’m sorry.” Gene said nothing, but after a moment he reached his arms around him, as well. “I missed you, Guv,” Sam breathed against his Guv’s neck and God, it wasn’t Brut anymore, but the smell of nicotine and Gene was there, and this couldn’t be more _real_.

“Now don’t get all-” he started, but Sam grabbed the lapels of his jacket and tugged forward.

Gene stumbled against him, his arms holding onto Sam’s hips to keep his balance, and their mouths collided almost painfully. There was a snort against his lips, but Sam was stubborn and didn’t remove his mouth until Gene sighed and finally met his tongue. As kisses went, it was rather clumsy and sloppy, but he figured you really couldn’t beat the ‘Gene is here!’ factor.

“Shaggin’ in public is still against the law, innit?” Gene said against his lips and Sam laughed softly.

“I’m ‘fraid so, Guv.”

“Damn,” the kiss was interrupted when Gene grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back. “We should stop startin’ things that we can’t finish,” he said seriously, but his eyes were sparkling with humour and Sam grinned up at him.

 

* * *

 

“This is it,” Sam said, nodding at the green door with the number 103A written in black on it. “You’re home.”

Gene used the keys he’d found on himself earlier and let them in. The flat wasn’t spacious, but it wasn’t small either, with sparse furniture and white walls. Modern and neat.

“Nice,” mused Sam.

Of course, he’d been stuck with the match box furnished by an interior designer on crack and Gene got this. He even had a _kitchen_!

“Bah,” said Gene with a shrug, pushing past him to go to the kitchen. Once there he left on the table the bottle of Scotch he’d bought as soon as they’d been out of the restaurant, then went to investigate the content of the cabinets, coming up with two glasses.

“Not for me,” Sam shook his head. “The accident. Won’t be drinking alcohol for a while.”

Gene said nothing, but he was frowning as he poured himself a double.

“Not too much,” he said, “we have to go back.”

Gene slammed the glass down, some of the Scotch spilling on the tabletop. “Shut it, Tyler!” he snarled, “I’m in bloody 2007 and you’ve been naggin’ at me all day.”

Sam put up his hands and shook his head. “All right!” he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, uh, sorry. I know it’s hard-” he sighed.

Hard, that was one way to describe it. And Sam should have understood, he’d lived this, after all, and it wasn’t like meeting Gene now had been all that easy on him, either, not even taking into account this _thing_ between them.

“I’ve been there,” he said softly. “If you want to talk or something.”

Gene snorted and raised his eyebrows at him before taking another sip. Sam shrugged and dared a light kiss on the side of his mouth, but Gene didn’t move at all and he sighed and took a step back. “I’ll just wait over there, you take your time.”

In the hallway, he leaned against the wall, closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. He felt like he’d spent the whole morning running, and now his mind was all over the place. Gene should be dead, it said clearly so on the reports from 1975, and he’d also checked all the news articles he could get his hands on. DCI Gene Hunt had been shot and had died on the way to the hospital, and that was it. He wasn’t in a coma like Sam had been, he wasn’t hearing the voices of people from thirty years in the past.

It didn’t make any sense. “What’s the point?” he wondered, out loud.

He had tried many times to find a reason, _any_ reason at all, that could somehow explain why he’d ended up in 1973, only to disappear one year later and come back to 2007. Nothing had been resolved, he’d left everything hanging in the seventies, lots of loose ends that he thought he’d never be able to tie – the case, Gene, Annie. There was also the possibility he was still in the coma and hallucination having woken up and subsequently meeting Gene. Or maybe he was just plain crazy.

 _Matrix_ had been one of his favourite films, once, but now it made him slightly queasy, uncomfortably hitting too close home.

He took out his mobile, turned off while they were having lunch, and switched it on. The voicemail notice beeped and he stared for a minute, debating what to do. In the end, he caved in.

“Mr Tyler, this is Dr Scott-” Delete. “Sam, it’s your mother. Dr Scott called again, he’s worried-” Delete. “DCI Tyler,” oh, Superintendent Barton, “I’ve been unable to reach you on your mobile. We need to discuss the new adjustments regarding your position. Dr Scott-” Sam sighed. Del- _wait_ , “-pressure, that’s why we decided to appoint an acting DCI to your division for the time being.” Delete.

He leaned back against the wall and rubbed his face. So that was the excuse for Gene’s presence here. Sam was relegated to desk duty and Gene was acting DCI out in the streets.

 _Great_. He hoped the people upstairs knew what they were doing, he’d leafed through Gene’s transfer papers earlier and by the looks of his curriculum, it didn’t seem like his Guv had changed much from the seventies.

“I think we need to go now,” he said, loud enough so that Gene could hear.

 

* * *

 

Back at CID, Gene sat in Sam’s chair, while he was perched on the desk facing his- actually, he wasn’t his Guv anymore since they were both DCIs.

“Now, Guv,” Sam began, and well, old habits die hard. “There are some things you need to know before- Well, before you start working here as a 21st century police officer.”

Gene groaned loudly, sliding forward into the chair and wearing a rather disgusted expression.

“Gene,” he said, holding up his transfer papers for him to see. “These say that you’ve received several reprimands.”

Gene sat up at that, “Reprimands?”

“Gee, I wonder why,” Sam rolled his eyes and ignored his glare. “Employment of excessive force during arrest, harassing and threatening suspects, and so on. It’s a wonder you’re still DCI.”

“Since when scum have rights?” Gene spat, crossing his arms over his chest.

“See? That’s what I was talking about,” Sam said. “And there always have been rules, the only difference is that now we _apply_ them!”

“Oh, right, I forgot, Mr Spotless McWhitey.”

Sam sighed. “This is serious, Guv, because you’ll be out there by yourself working with outdated methods. Thirty years old, actually. And you can have all the infallible gut feelings in the world Gene, but they’ll be worth nothing if you don’t have the evidence to back them up.”

Gene pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at him, seeming to consider that, then frowned. “What do you mean you won’t be there?”

Sam cleared his voice, “I’m on desk duty until full recovery, you’re acting DCI in the field.”

Gene swept a glance over him, then shrugged. “You seem recovered enough to me.”

“Yeah, and since when are you a doctor?” he shook his head. “Actually, my chances of coming back to active duty are pretty slim.”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Gene asked, his voice low.

Sam lowered his head and leant forward. “They had to remove my spleen after the accident, and even with all the physiotherapy I’ve been doing my left leg still isn’t back to normal,” he said quietly. “And of course they’ll never give me a clear bill of health without Dr Scott’s approval.”

“Who’s that?”

“He’s the psyc- _shrink_ ,” to hell with that, this was Gene, anyway. “To deal with the whole ‘back in the seventies coma induced dream’,” Gene raised his eyebrows at him and Sam nodded with a solemn face. “Apparently, I’m a nutter in both timelines.”

“Wouldn’t recognize you if you suddenly started to make sense, would I?”

Sam snorted. “Guess not.”

“Alright,” Gene straightened up and looked expectantly at him. “Let’s start with your nancy-boy science.”

“For starters,” Sam said. “Latex gloves.”

“ _What_?”

It was going to be a long day.

They spent a good two hours on the proper procedure to adopt while investigating a crime scene, at the end of which Sam decided to take a break and carry on their discussion in an empty office, mainly because the next subjects were interrogation dos and don’ts and basic technology know-how (it had to be added when Gene had revealed in an off-hand comment that he had _accidentally_ broken the mobile phone he had found in his pocket when he’d arrived here). And if Gene’s reactions were going to be anything similar to those of the past two hours – very _loud_ , that is – they’d need to be away from the prying eyes and the ears of the CID.

Three hours later, their jackets off, their sleeves rolled up to the elbows and their ties loosened, Sam decided to call it a day, “Okay, let’s stop here,” he sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. Not that Gene’s constant fidgeting and sneaking hungry glances at the pack of cigarettes hadn’t played a part in his decision.

As soon as they took the first step outside, Gene lit up the cigarette he’d had in his mouth since three floors earlier, “I think you should quit,” Sam told him and Gene looked at him like he’d just announced he wanted to commit mass-murder or something equally horrifying. He raised his hands, pre-empting Gene’s rant. “Just a friendly advice. You can’t smoke in public places anymore, though.”

The horrified look appeared once more. “Not even in the _pub_?”

Sam shook his head. “Afraid not.”

“Shit,” he muttered. “Speaking of pubs…”

“No way, Guv,” Sam cut him off before he could go any further. “We can’t get drunk on a week night.”

Gene gave him a disgusted look. “It took months of training to get you to loosen up and here you are, all tight-arsed again.”

Sam ignored him and lead them to his car – and getting back his driving licence had been a nightmarish experience he didn’t care to ever repeat – and unlocked it.

“What about the Railway Arms?” Gene asked and he froze, leaning on the roof, one hand on the car door.

“It’s still there,” he swallowed. “But I never-”

The CID, Manchester, everything was so different that it might as well have been another planet, but the Railway Arms was the same, at least on the outside, and the first time Sam had laid his eyes on the familiar sign had oddly felt like coming home. There were too many memories tied to that place, and he wanted to preserve them as they were, he felt that he’d lose it if he were to go inside and find that something had changed, even the smallest thing.

Gene’s eyes studied him closely, then he nodded and, saying nothing, he got into the car.

 

* * *

 

Sam unlocked the door and opened it with a flourish, then took a step sideways to let Gene in.

“Um,” Gene said thoughtfully. “This is better than your old one.”

He snorted. “I’d say.”

“Still, houses out of factories?” Gene said, shaking his head with a disgusted expression.   
“What has the world come to?”

“I like it,” Sam shrugged. “Sturdy door for one thing,” he said, but Gene ignored that and went through the first door, into the kitchen.

“Looks like a robot could live here,” Gene said, brushing his fingers over the glass surface of the tabletop.

“It’s easier to clean, more hygienic,” Sam replied from the doorway. “And I like it, it’s minimalistic.”

Gene raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing and continued in the direction of the living room. He watched him go, then went to hang his jacket.

He was exploring the contents of his fridge when Gene’s surprised ‘Bloody hell, Tyler!’ startled him.

“What the hell is _that_?”

Sam followed his voice to the living room, and when he saw what Gene was pointing at he grinned, smugly.

“That, Guv,” he said, “is an HD, Dolby 5.1, plasma TV.”

Gene stared at it, his eyes comically round, then at Sam, and said, still pointing to the flat screen. “You mean to tell me that’s a _telly_?!”

Sam smirked and went to the sofa to grab the remote. “HD stands for high definition,” he said turning it on. “You can actually see the _pores_ on people’s skin.”

“Don’t be daft! Why would I want-” but he trailed off as News 24 appeared on screen.

Actually, maybe the news channel wasn’t the best choice for someone a good thirty years behind in contemporary history. Jesus, in 1974 the Berlin Wall had been still up. “I’ve got DVDs if you want, Guv.”

“Good for you,” Gene said from the sofa.

“They’re _films_ ,” Sam rolled his eyes and dropped the remote into Gene’s lap. “Here.”

It was tiring, but also kind of familiar in a frustrating way, this whole having to keep in check everything that came out of his mouth, but Sam was out of practice after a year spent trying to forget 1973.

When he’d still been in the hospital his mother had brought some music at his request, and as he’d first caught sight of the small stereo and the CDs he had almost wept. He had, though, when David Bowie had started singing, and he had laughed out loud through the tears when ‘The Jean Genie’ had come up, his mother looking at him with a strange look in her eyes.

Gene’s eyes were glued to the TV and he wasn’t likely to come away anytime soon, so Sam took his Guv’s carelessly abandoned coat from the back of the sofa and went to hang it, then he was back in the kitchen to see if he could come up with some sort of dinner. He didn’t have much in the fridge, as he’d forgotten to shop for groceries in all the excitement of the day, but he was positive the task could be accomplished.

Another surprised curse came from the direction of the living room, then. “Come here, Sammy-boy!”

Sam paused a moment in his chopping the onions and sighing he called out. “What is it, Guv?”

 

Gene’s reply very nearly cost him his fingers. “Porn!”

In his haste to get to the living room he almost dislocated his left shoulder when he collided with the doorframe. He stumbled in and there Gene was, staring transfixed at the screen as the plumber and the sexy client went at it like their life depended on it, fake moans and all.

As porn went it wasn’t even that sensational, but he remembered the clumsy, soft-core quality of those around in the seventies and this one had to have quite an impact on Gene, considering the HD plasma screen factor, as well.

The woman moaned quite obscenely and Sam snatched the remote from Gene’s hands, quickly turning off the TV. “I thought you didn’t like porn!”

“Well.”

“I am _not_ watching porn with you, Gene!” Sam exclaimed, hiding the remote behind his back, in case Gene wanted to take it back. He didn’t stand up from the sofa, though, he just crossed his arms with a wry face.

“You can help with dinner,” Sam suggested, but even he wasn’t that eager at the prospect. His Guv was probably one of those people who believed that anything could be edible if you added the right amount of butter or if you fried it enough.

“Or you could set the table,” he continued but the look Gene sent his way made him give up altogether and with a shrug he went back to his onions.

Thing was, Sam had no idea what Gene liked to do to pass the time, or relax in general. Most of their free time together in 1973 had been spent down at the pub, drinking and playing darts, but now?

“We should find you a hobby, Guv,” he called out.

“We should find you a hubby, Gladys,” Gene replied, his voice much closer than he expected and when he cast a glance over his shoulder, he spotted him leaning against the doorframe, fingers through his belt loops, cigarette hanging from his lips, classic sheriff pose.

“I’ve got some wine,” Sam said. “Help yourself.”

“Best idea you’ve had all day,” Gene commented before coming over and taking the wine from the cabinet Sam had pointed at. He uncorked it and took a swig right from the bottle. Sam grimaced.

“What? I’m gonna be the only one drinking this, anyway.”

He conceded the point and proceeded to brown the onions for his pasta sauce.

Next to him, Gene leant his hip on the counter and let his eyes wander though the dimly lit kitchen, alternating a sip from the bottle to his cigarette.

“You really like this, don’t you?” he asked after a while.

Sam frowned and turned to look at him. “The flat you mean?” he shrugged. “No hallucinogenic wallpaper. Yes, I like it.”

He more than liked it, actually. He’d chosen every single piece of furniture, dragging his girlfriend of the time around Manchester to find the perfect combination. Gene nodded thoughtfully and he looked way too serious to Sam. “The bigger bed is a nice change, as well,” he said offhandedly, and grinned when Gene did a double take, the bottle suspended mid-swig.

Sam chuckled to himself and went back to his task, watching out of the corner of his eye as Gene put down the bottle and turned towards him, stubbing out his cigarette on the countertop.

“Hey!” he protested, but Gene grabbed his arm and pushed him, the small of his back hitting the stainless steel of the cooking top. And Sam wasn’t a fool, no matter what Gene said, and knew exactly when to shut up and get on with the program.

His arms went to circle Gene’s neck and he tugged him forward, opening his mouth and welcoming him, tasting of smoke and wine. Gene grunted against his lips and his hands travelled all the way down to his hips, to settle on his buttocks after a moment of hesitation.

“Maybe we could-” Sam started, but didn’t know how to finish, the words flying away as his arse was squeezed and a hand fumbled at his belt. “Jesus.”

“Come on,” Gene muttered, starting to yank at his buttons, when he couldn’t work them. “Come _on_.”

“Gene,” he gasped and dropped down to his knees before he even knew what he was going to do, his fingers going to Gene’s crotch, and he shivered when they brushed against the hardness there. He paused and glanced up, meeting Gene’s eyes, and they were dark and wide, in arousal and wonder. Sam swallowed.

“Might as well get on with it,” Gene said, but his voice was shaky. “Now that you’re down there.”

Thank God Sam wasn’t particularly romantic.

He helped unzipping the fly, but squeezed his eyes shut when Gene’s cock came finally free. He didn’t back away, though, burying his nose in the dark blonde curls, the head leaving a wet smear against his cheek. He breathed deeply and gasped when a large hand landed on his shoulder.

“What is it, Sam? You act as if you've never sucked a dick before.”

Oh great, so they were going to have that conversation _now_.

“I haven’t.”

“You-” but Gene’s words gave way to a low grunting as Sam turned his head and licked from the root to the head.

The situation in his own pants wasn’t that different, his erection pressing against the fly, and he tried to reach into them, but Gene was now pressing against him, forcing him to get a grip on his hips to steady himself. One hand went to the back of his head, to keep him still, to adjust the position, the other on his jaw and Sam could take a hint.

Fuck it all.

He opened his mouth and Gene slipped inside, wet and hot. He almost choked, and started to pull back, but those hands kept him firm, the cock pushing in even more and Sam could do nothing but suck and lick.

A particularly forceful thrust sent Sam back, upsetting his balance, making him lose the grip he had on Gene’s hips, and he fell on his arse, hitting the back of his head against the oven. Gene’s whole body followed him, and Sam fought back the conditioned reflex and opened his mouth even wider, Gene’s cock sliding all the way down his throat, almost choking him.

Gene’s taste in his mouth and his scent overwhelming him, he desperately tried to raise from the sprawl he was in, back on his knees, his hands seeking support on the cold, smooth surface behind him, but slipping, sweaty, and accidentally pressing a button. The oven beeped.

Above him, Gene grunted and Sam had to look. His Guv was taller and bigger than ever, obscuring the view of his kitchen, his head thrown back. And Sam stopped trying to do anything at all and let himself be fucked, closing his eyes, letting big hands positioning his head however they wanted, straining to open as wide as he could, taking everything Gene had to give.

After, everything seemed to happen in slow motion, Gene tensing above him, the hot rush on his tongue and the sudden stillness in the room, quick panting breaths in the silence.

Gene looked down at Sam, wide-eyed and breathless. “Bloody hell, Tyler, that was-”

Sam wiped his mouth with the bad of his hand and leant back, closing his eyes. “Yeah,” he croaked, then sniffed the air. “Turn off the sauce, will you, it’s burning.”

Gene blinked at him, still dazed, but nodded and killed the gas. When he looked again at him he was still on the floor, his legs stretched out in front of him.

“What are you doin’ still down there, Gladys?” Gene frowned, his trousers were still undone and Sam couldn’t look away. “Get up, eh.”

Sam cleared his throat, he could still feel Gene’s taste in his mouth. “I came in my pants,” he blurted, shifting on his arse and grimacing at the oozing in his pants. “I’m uncomfortable.”

Gene gave him a look. “Are you always this stupid after a shag?”

Sam glared at him, but accepted the proffered hand and stood up. “Must be your legendary

prowess,” he said.

“Must be,” Gene nodded, serious, patting himself down for another cigarette.

“I’m going to change,” Sam said. “You should do up your…” he gestured vaguely at Gene’s crotch.

Which he had gotten close and personal with. Which he’d liked so much he’d actually come because of it.

He walked to the bedroom in a daze, trying to come to terms with the fact that he’d just lived a cheap porno, the blow-job in the kitchen, the wet noises, the moans, Gene’s scent all around him, in his nostrils, in his mouth as he’d licked him.

And he was getting hard again.

He’d just zipped up a clean pair of jeans when he heard the key in the front door lock.

Jesus.

He’d completely _forgotten_.

“Who the hell are you?” Gene and Maya exclaimed at the same time.

 

* * *

 

Maya cornered him as soon as Gene left to go to the loo.

“Who is _that_ , Sam?”

Sam winced at the tone in her voice, not that Gene didn’t get that reaction from almost everybody. “He’s…an old friend,” he replied, snorting at the convenient words. The truth was much more complicated and even Sam had always found trouble in defining their relationship.

Peculiar was one word for it.

She seemed to consider that. “And old friend. And he’s a police officer.”

He stood up and started collecting the leftovers of their slightly burnt dinner – and wasn’t he grateful Maya hadn’t commented on that?

“A DCI, actually,” he nodded. “He transferred today, from Hyde.”

Her frown deepened, “Sam…”

He shrugged as he started loading the dishwasher, “I know, he’s a bit…No, actually he’s a veritable bastard,” he admitted. “But he’s my friend.” And it was true.

“Sam,” Maya repeated, firmly but not unkindly. “His name is Gene Hunt, DCI Gene Hunt.”

“I know that, what are you trying to-”

 _Oh._

He should have learnt to keep his mouth shut about certain things, really, especially after his experience with Annie. But no, as soon as he’d woken up he’d had to tell everyone – Maya, his mum, the doctors – about the weird life he’d led in 1973. He’d told his mother about how he’d tried to stop Vic Tyler from leaving his family, he’d told Maya about Chris, Ray, Phyllis and Annie and Gene – editing out some details of course.

His mother had looked pitying, Mays absolutely terrified, and the doctors had given him the number of a Dr Scott. You’re supposed to learn from your mistakes, then why couldn’t he?

Sam turned around and saw Gene beyond her, in the hallway, following the whole scene with attention, his blue eyes boring into his, unreadable.

“Gene?” he called, and Maya looked over her shoulder. “Are you leaving?”

“Yeah, you and the bird have fun,” he said. “I’ll get me coat.”

“Wait!” Sam exclaimed and hurried after him.

They stopped in the hall, facing each other, Gene shrugging on his coat and lighting a cigarette for the road.

“You don’t have to leave,” Sam said quietly, casting furtive glances in the direction of the kitchen to see if Maya had followed them.

Gene gave him a look. “Sure, Gladys,” then sneered. “A Paki, huh? Aren’t you a kinky ‘un, Sammy-boy?”

What had he said earlier? Outright bastard alright.

“Gene-” he started.

“Nah, go play some Kama sutra with Scheherazade there. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Sam gaped at him, then shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t _believe_ it!” he exclaimed. “Sometimes I don’t even know why I bother!”

“Because you happen to like cock,” Gene leered. “The cock in question bein’ mine, of course.”

Sam was reasonably sure he was just trying to get a rise out of him, but slamming the door into his face felt satisfying like nothing had lately. He leant against the door, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to fend off the headache. He really didn’t feel like going back to the kitchen to face Maya.

“So. Gene Hunt,” Maya said and when he opened his eyes she was there, standing in the hallway, her arms crossed over her chest. “Should I assume that everyone else you’ve met in 1973 is actually an old friend of yours, then?”

He snorted. “That’s more than thirty years ago, of course they would be _old_ friends!”

“Sam! I just want to know if what you’ve been telling me…” she trailed off, a frown on her face.

“You want to know if I invented them?” he thumped his head back against the door. “Yes, Maya, because I have so much fun making you all think I’m barking mad!”

“Nobody ever thought that!” she exclaimed vehemently. “You had a terrible accident, Sam, you almost _died_! And if that wasn’t traumatic enough you spent six months in a coma!”

“I know! Everybody keeps telling me that!” he yelled back. “‘You were in a coma Sam, and while we don’t know exactly what happens to the human mind, there are recorded cases of patients living experiences not unlike yours.’ See? I’ve heard that crap so many times I know it by heart!” he widened his eyes at her in a mock-eager expression. “I could say it backwards if you want!”

“Well, then! Have you considered it might be the truth?” she replied and he didn’t need to look at her to know she was angry. “No, _Sam Tyler travels in time_!” She fell silent and sighed deeply. “We’re here to help you, Sam, but we can’t if you constantly push us away.”

He rubbed his face and for a moment wished she had been the one to leave instead of Gene. He instantly regretted that, though, because Maya was right after all, they’d stood by him – these two strong and wonderful women – and they had never once complained, even when the initial euphoria of being back to his time had dissipated to be replaced by painful and tiring sessions of PT, when he’d sometimes voiced his wishes to go back to people and a place that had never existed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I know it’s been hard for you, I’m just- I’m sorry.”

Once again Maya was the first to cross the distance between them, reaching his side, her hand gently stroking his cheek. Sam leant into her touch and eventually pulled her into an embrace. She vaguely smelled of deodorant, fresh and clean, and modern, she smelled like 2007.

“Sam,” she said then, pulling back slightly to look at him. “Did you really know him before the accident?”

“What? You think my delusions are starting to acquire a physical form?”

Maya didn’t seem at all impressed by his attempts at sarcasm and just gave him an exasperated look. “No, Sam. I want you to see that these…‘people’ you supposedly met in 1973 were already here,” she tapped a finger against his forehead. “Your mind just created a new environment for them. Your mother was probably there too, as well as me.”

Oh, yeah, and that could have been easily the reason, except it _wasn’t_. Sam was an expert by now, having considered the whole ‘thing’ from every angle, and he’d come up with a lot of theories, one more crazy than the other, and with all the stuff he’d read about comas, time travel and mental illness up till now he could probably write his story and become the next Philip K. Dick. ‘The Amazing Adventures of Sam Tyler’, the time travelling, mad copper, eat your heart out Doctor Who!

“What exactly do you want me to say, Maya?”

“That you’ll go and talk about this with David.”

Of course, _David_. He could just picture the conversation, ‘You know that DCI I worked for in 1973 while I was in a coma? Well, guess, what. He’s now in 2007 and works with me. Oh no, doctor, he’s real, I assure you! I sucked his cock while I was cooking dinner!’

Right.

And you really shouldn’t think about giving head when you are with your girlfriend. Of course, it would have helped if hadn’t actually given head in the first place.

He let his hands drop from Maya’s waist and looked down. “I’ll talk to David,” he said, but Maya sighed.

“If you’re going to lie, then don’t say anything at all,” she said. “I’ll go.”

Sam should have probably stopped her, or at least tried to, but he could only watch in silence as she put on her jacket and left without even kissing him goodbye. He knew she wanted to break up with him, she had wanted that even before the accident, actually that was what had kept them together in the end. For the past month, though, ever since he’d started working again, he’d been waiting for those words, but surprisingly they still hadn’t come.

And it was stupid and egoistic of him, but right now he felt as if she’d been the one to betray him, she was the one who wasn’t leaving even if she obviously wanted to. Maybe it was her sense of responsibility, but Sam didn’t want to be somebody’s duty, he just wanted somebody to understand him, to _know_ him.

It was inevitable, really, but he was very surprised nevertheless, when he found himself knocking on Gene’s door at one in the morning.

He was even more surprised when Gene answered, shirt undone and tie missing but very much awake, and let him in without a word.

 

* * *

 

“Uh, Tyler?” came Gene’s voice from the living room, he sounded vaguely disturbed. “What’s _that_?”

Sam bent over the sink to splash some water into his face- “It’s your house, Guv!” he called. “If you don’t know that…” he trailed off.

“Yeah, but it’s your bloody century!” and now Gene sounded pissed, as well. “ _Tyler_!”

He sighed, but eventually he grabbed a towel to dry his face and went to see what the hell was going on, “I’m coming, hold your horses!”

When he arrived in the living room, Gene was behind the sofa, gripping the back of it like it was some sort of shield between him and…the TV? “Gene?” Sam frowned, draping the towel over his shoulders. “What is it?”

“You got fancy tellies, Tyler,” Gene turned to look at him, his eyes wild, “but I don’t think stuff is supposed to come _out of them_!”

Sam frowned at him, then glanced at the TV, but it all looked pretty normal to him. Well, Gene was apparently watching The Teletubbies, which frankly was a kind of creepy and disturbing concept to wrap his mind around, but- _Wait_. Gene was still behind the couch, shooting sharp glances left and right, as if he was _seeing something that wasn’t there_.

“I don’t _believe_ this!” Sam exclaimed.

“You’re telling me, Sammy.”

“No,” Sam shook his head. “I can’t believe I get the freaky Test Card Girl and you get the _Teletubbies_!”

Gene’s head shot around and he fixed him with a frown. “I don’t ‘ave the faintest idea of what the hell you’re talkin’ about.”

So apparently things coming out of TVs were an important accessory of this whole time travelling ‘experience’. He’d wondered why Gene wasn’t hearing voices, but that was probably because he was actually dead in 1975, and you can’t hear voices when you’re dead. Presumably.

“How can I put it?” Sam frowned. “I received visits from the creepy Test Card Girl, you’re stuck with a children programme, talk about unfair.”

Gene glared at him. “Tyler, there are four fat alien monkeys in my living room, they’re _singing_ and they’re babblin’ nonsense!”

He frowned. “Well, when you put it like that…”

Gene suddenly turned around and squinted at one corner of the room, there was only a lamp there, and also a Teletubby invisible to Sam, probably. “That one just said ‘eh-oh’, what the hell does that mean?!”

Sam threw his head back and his laughter was loud and long, and even Gene’s savage cursing couldn’t drown it out. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he went back to the bathroom.

“I’m having a shower,” he called over his shoulder.

“Tyler! Come back ‘ere!” Gene bellowed. “I swear I’ll rip off your arms and beat you to death with ‘em! _Tyler_!”

He waved at him and, before closing the door. “Wait for the group hug!”

“The _what_?”

“Teletubbies love each other very much!”

“ _What_?!”

When he got out of the shower, Gene’s bathrobe firmly tied at his waist, and reached in the living room, the TV was laying upside down on the floor, the screen shattered.

“Well, that was a bit too drastic,” he said, crouching in front of it to check the damage.

Gene was sitting on the sofa, clutching a tumbler in one hand and a bottle of Scotch in the other, he cocked his head and frowned. “You shouldn’t drink, we have to be at work in a few.”

“I hate you,” Gene spat, fiercely.

 

* * *

 

Sam lost sight of Gene when he was ensnared by the Super to be shown around the station. The gob-smacked look on Gene’s face when he discovered that his superior was actually a woman had made Sam laugh out loud and kept him amused for most of the morning.

They met again at lunch time in the canteen, and by now Gene was staring at everything around him with a rather lost expression.

“Everything’s different,” he said, dazed. “It’s like being in the future.”

Sam arched an eyebrow at him. “You _are_ in the future, Guv.”

“Oh and here’s me thinkin’ we took a tour on the TARDIS,” Gene replied, flatly. “You know what I mean, Tyler.”

Sam did. “Yes, Guv.”

“They’ve got that minimal thing you fancy so much goin’ on everywhere. And blinking screens, and everybody’s got those whatsit phones you showed me yesterday,” he gave him a suspicious glance. “I bet if I stop anyone and ask, they’re gonna start yappin’ about blood pattern analysis or something.”

Sam laughed at that. “Yes, Guv, 2007 is full of Sam Tylers from Hyde.”

“May God have mercy on us all,” said Gene and for a moment there he actually sounded _terrified_ at the prospect.

“Amen to that,” Sam replied, digging into his lunch.

Gene nodded at his plate. “What’s with the pudding on your burger?”

“It’s horseradish.”

 

* * *

 

Sam let the cardboard box fall on the desk and leant on it, he grinned. Gene looked up at him then at the box, but he didn’t seem to share his good mood at all. Sam didn’t give up, though, and stood there, silently watching Gene and waiting.

“What?” asked Gene finally, lifting his eyes his eyes from the computer screen, he was probably playing Solitaire anyway. He still had problems with the computer, even Word, even _Note Pad_ , but his Solitaire and Mine Sweeper scores were even higher than Sam’s.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said, but instead of explaining he rummaged in the box and came out with a folder, yellowed and threadbare with age. “Here.”

Gene took the file from his hands and, leaning back, he leafed through it with a thoughtful expression.

“This is Cheeky Mickey’s autopsy report,” he said finally, meeting Sam’s eyes.

“Yes,” Sam said and took a chair to sit in front of him. “Technically, the case is still open.”

Gene seemed to think about it for a long moment, but he shook his head and tossed the folder back into the cardboard box. “Forget it.”

Sam gaped at him, he’d thought Gene would have been eager at that opportunity. “ _Why_?”

“Because it’s been more than thirty years, all the people involved are probably dead by now,” Gene replied, going back to his computer. “The murderin’ bastard is probably dead, as well. What’s the point?”

He pushed his shoulder, spinning him back to face him. “The point,” he said, through his teeth, “is closure.”

Gene snorted, “And what use is that to us? Closure?” he shook his head. “Mickey’s dead, Jimmy Eye’s dead, I’m dead, you’re missing. It’s been thirty years, everybody’s moved on.”

“You don’t believe that,” Sam went on. “If you’ve been doing this job since you were nineteen you must know that nobody really ‘moves on’, Guv. They just cling to every little hope they have.”

“Okay, so they haven’t move on,” Gene exclaimed, “but who’s remained here that we can bring the results to?”

“Don’t you think bringing a murderer to justice is enough?”

“If he’s still alive he’ll be a old, blithering idiot who’s never gonna go to prison,” Gene shook his head. “Where’s the justice in that?”

“I can’t believe I have to talk you into this,” he muttered shaking his head, then he looked straight into his eyes. “Mickey’s mum is still alive,” Gene’s head shot up, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t you think she deserves to know?”

Gene considered the box for a long minute, he sighed and took out the folder. “Alright, Sherlock, let’s get started.”

Sam smiled and took a folder, as well, Jimmy Eye’s one, but his smile fell when he saw the label of the one under it. He laid both of them on the desk, fingering the letters in relief on the red label, before opening the one with Tyler, Samuel written on it.

There wasn’t much inside, considering he had quite literally disappeared into thin air, but there were interviews, evidence reports both from the back alley behind the Railway Arms and his flat, fingerprints, the whole lot.

He looked up at Gene. “You didn’t tell me…” he trailed off.

Gene looked at the name on the folder, but didn’t meet his eyes. “Well, I told you we looked for you,” he shrugged, “But even with your fancy methods we found nothing.”

And what can you say in situations like these. “Thanks.”

Gene regarded him with raised eyebrows, then he rolled his eyes. “You’re welcome.”

“I mean it, Gene,” Sam said. “When I was… _there_ , it didn’t occur to me that I’d find some really good friends, at first.”

“Should I get some hankies?” Gene mumbled, without raising his eyes from the reports he was reading.

He rolled his eyes, “I’m se-” he frowned down at the report, at the _date_. “Hey, you got a pen? _Hey_!” Finally, Gene acknowledged him and handed him a pen. “And some paper,” he got a yellow post-it.

“Right, now,” he scribbled down the date of his accident, then under it the day of his disappearance from 1974. It was the same.

“Crap.”

He wheeled to his desk, clearing the screensaver and opening the password-locked folder.

“‘Life on Mars’?” asked Gene from above his right shoulder.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, now double-clicking the ‘Hunt, Gene’ subdirectory. “It was playing when- I _knew_ it!”

“What?” Gene said, leaning forward and squinting at the copy of the paper article on the screen. “That’s me? Jackie Queen wrote a piece about me and called me a hero?”

“You don’t speak ill of the dead, and she already did- Never mind,” he shook his head, “Look at the date. It’s one year!”

Gene frowned, “It’s one day earlier, actually.”

“That’s because 1974 was a leap year,” he replied. “Exactly 365 days.”

Gene pursued his lips and nodded thoughtfully. “And we care why?”

“Chances are you’ll disappear on the same day you arrived here.”

Gene gave him a look, “Sam-”

“Or you might disappear tomorrow and end up in 1988 for all we know. But I think the dates are important, so we’ll just assume we’re operating with a deadline,” Sam turned to look at him. “Maybe this is why you’re here, maybe this is-” he was cut off when Gene elbowed him in the ribs. “Hey, what-”

“Heads up,” Gene nodded to his right, and he turned to look as well.

Maya was coming towards them, long strides and determined face. “Sam,” she called, “what are you doing?”

Sam switched off the computer screen and gathered the folders. “Working on a case,” he said, putting everything back in the box. “Did you need something?”

She eyed the box. “1974, Sam that’s-”

“Sorry, love,” said Gene, shouldering between them and getting hold of Sam's arm. “We gotta go.”

And before either of them could say something, he was being dragged away, Maya’s frowning face following them until they were out of sight.

Sam snorted. “That was smooth.”

 

* * *

 

“I thought I told you,” Sam repeated for the third time.

“So you did,” Gene agreed, and the way he was cutting all the corners showed his driving technique hadn’t changed much. “I heard you all the times. And yet, you keep goin’ on.”

“Because,” he exclaimed, turning to him, “I’m supposed to by at my desk, right now, working!”

“Rotting at your desk, you mean,” Gene said, showing his two fingers to the driver who’d just cursed at him. “ _Now_ you’re working.”

“I’m on desk duty!” Sam exclaimed.

He had been working on reports, his swivelling chair had been given a kick and suddenly he had found himself a good three feet away from his keyboard, Gene’s commanding voice booming ‘Get your arse in gear, we got a dead bloke’.

Gene braked and the car skidded to a halt, barely missing a trash bin, half on half off the pavement.

“This doesn’t look like a desk to me,” he said shooting a smirk in Sam’s direction, before he effectively put an end to the conversation by getting out of the car. Sam wasn’t giving up, though.

The small crowd that had gathered outside the house turned to look, curious, as he and Gene got out of the car.

“ _Exactly_!” he exclaimed, and Gene, who was already a few steps ahead of him, stopped and turned around, walking back to him and invading his personal space with three, determined strides.

“Listen to me, Tyler,” he hissed, stabbing his index finger against his chest. “I know only one way of policing and apparently it’s no good right now, so I’ll just have to bring you along, alright?”

Sam narrowed his eyes at him, then looked over his shoulder at the two PCs beyond the yellow ‘POLICE DO NOT CROSS’ line, they were craning their necks in their direction, curious.

He sighed, “Guv.”

Gene was still giving him a rather angry glare, though, “I said, alright?”

“Yes, Guv.”

“Good,” he nodded, satisfied.

He preceded Sam and, with his usual kindness, he started shoving away people to make his way to the crime scene. He held the line up for Sam to duck under, though.

“DCI Hunt,” he said showing the badge to the two PCs. “This is DI- _DCI_ Tyler.”

“Uh, PCs White and Davis,” said the taller one, frowning at them. “Is there a problem, sir?”

“Nope,” Gene sniffed, then nodded to the house. “Let’s go Sammy-boy,” Sam rolled his eyes.

“Oi, lads!” he called back to the two PCs. “Clear off this lot will you!”

“Right, sir,” they both nodded, synchronously.

Gene frowned at them, but then shook his head and entered the house, Sam noticed he was snapping latex gloves on. He smiled to himself and reached his side, bumping his shoulder.

“See, you remembered,” he said nodding down to his hands. “There may be hope for you yet.”

Gene gave him a look, “Ha bloody ha.”

 

* * *

 

After a week of going over the reports, the statements and making new notes it was clear they needed more space, so that Friday he went out and bought a magnetic whiteboard, markers and a box of magnets.

Gene was sitting on the sofa, his feet propped up on the coffee table, eating his Chinese take away straight from the carton. He frowned at him as Sam worked on building some sort of timeline, hanging copies of photos and reports.

“A little help wouldn’t go amiss,” he said when he turned around to retrieve the photos of Jimmy Eye’s crime scene.

“You seem to be doin’ alright,” Gene replied, still munching, but he stood up and walked to his side, observing the board from above his shoulder.

Sam shook his head and went get another folder, there was a photo under it and he frowned as he took it. It was a black and white photo of him with the rest of team, he didn’t remember the occasion, but it had been taken at the Railway Arms, he could tell by the background and the general pissed states of the subjects in the picture. He was smiling, Gene was next to him, an arm draped around his shoulders, making rude gestures to the camera. On the other side of him Annie was smiling, then Ray and Chris, smirking to each other at some shared joke, Phyllis frowning at them. He turned it around, there was a date scribbled down, Gene’s birthday.

He blinked, his throat closing, and he looked up at Gene. “I’ve never seen this one,” he said softly, handing the photo to Gene.

Gene put down the carton and took it from his hand, he sniffed, “Yeah,” he pursued his lips. “Only photo we had of you,” he said. “To show to people when we…” he trailed off but Sam nodded.

“Right,” Gene cleared his throat. “Useless now,” he said and tossed it back into the box.

Sam bent to pick it up, though, and with a magnet he stuck it to the whiteboard, in the top right corner. At Gene’s look he said. “Just a reminder. To remember why we’re doing this.”

Gene rolled his eyes. “Sentimental Jessie.”

“But you like me anyway,” Sam replied, “I give mean blow jobs.” Gene sputtered and Sam smirked. “Right. Let’s get started.”

He picked up an interview report. “So, you brought in Greg Duvall.”

“Aye, the cigar bloke.” Gene nodded, then snorted. “Big fat good it did.”

Sam leafed through the transcript of the interview, but there was nothing of interest there, just the basic questions about his whereabouts the nights of the murders, and of the kidnapping of course.

He frowned. “Looks like it’s pretty edited, though,” he looked up at Gene. “I hoped he walked out on his own legs.”

“Didn’t lay a hand on him, did I?” Gene shrugged. “Came in with his solicitor.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “But you hadn’t formally arrested him, why would he bring one with him?”

“Because he was guilty as sin, the soddin’ bastard,” Gene spat, “I’d have given me right leg for five minutes alone with him. Five minutes! And I swear…” he trailed off and smacked his hand against the board, making it shake under the force.

“Guv,” Sam said softly.

Gene pointed a finger at him. “Don’t give me that crap, Tyler,” he said, now furious. “We asked about Jimmy Eye, and Mickey and you, and he just sat there, smirking and saying nothing like, like-” he shook his head, “like I don’t know what, but mark me words, Sammy, it was _him_!”

Sam raised his hands. “Okay, okay,” he said, trying to calm him down. “If you were so sure why didn’t you pull one of your stunts and planted some evidence?”

It was the wrong thing to say, that, but he felt it was a question that needed to be asked anyway.

Gene’s reaction was something he had quite anticipated and braced himself for, he was grabbed by the lapels of the shirt and tugged forward, mere inches from his Guv’s snarling face. “I was building a water tight case against him, wasn’t I?” he hissed into his face, and Sam widened his eyes. “Surprised, aren’t you? I didn’t want him to walk away after killing two people and taking a copper, _my_ copper.”

He gave another tug and Sam had to grab onto Gene’s shoulders to keep his balance. “Sorry, Guv, I just thought-”

Gene narrowed his eyes at him and looked like he wanted to add something, but abruptly he sighed and let him go. He rubbed his face. “Well, I might as well have.”

The grip on his shirt loosened and Sam took a tentative step back, Gene’s hands falling down to his sides. Still glancing at him, he took a marker and wrote Duvall’s name on the board.

“We should see if he’s still alive,” he said, after a moment.

“He was in his thirties,” Gene shrugged and sat down. “Listen,” he started, then stopped.

He looked at him expectantly, until Gene finally sighed and rubbed his face. “He was off-limits.”

Sam frowned. “What do you mean?”

Gene leaned against the couch, his arms stretching over the back. “I got pressure from above,” he made a vague gesture. “His cousin was some important bloke, John Slane something or other.”

Sam froze. “Johnny Sloane?”

Gene looked up at him, “Yeah, you know ‘im?”

He sat next to him, still feeling kind of dazed. “Jesus, Guv, _Johnny Sloane_!”

“Johnny Sloane what?”

He cleared his throat and sat up. “Okay, picture Warren and Tony Crane.”

Gene frowned. “A ponce and a sissy?”

Sam glared at him, “No, I meant _organized crime_ ,” he said and Gene nodded, “Sloane is at the head of a crime syndicate that spreads all over Europe, I’m talking prostitution, human traffic, but mostly, drugs. He’s affiliated with the Russians and there have been contacts with the Chinese, recently.”

Actually, now that it came to him Sloane’s activities had started back in the late seventies, to slowly expand and reach National levels by the mid-nineties and go global, so to speak, at the beginning of the new millennium.

Gene blinked at him and straightened up. “Bloody hell.”

“Exactly,” he pointed at him and grinned. “Thing is, nothing sticks to the bastard. And this,” he said, looking at the whiteboard, “this could be it, this could be our chance.”

 

* * *

 

Sam opened the Word document with all the addresses and the phone numbers, Gene was sitting beside him, silent and he felt like he should say something.

“I’ve never gone to visit any of them,” he cleared his throat. “It seemed unfair.”

What would he have said? ‘Hi, I’m Sam, remember me? I disappeared in 1974 and here I am, still young in 2007. Surprise!’ And what was the use? He couldn’t have explained anyway.

“You reckon she’s still alive?” Gene asked softly after a while, and he didn’t have to ask about who the ‘she’ in question was.

Sam looked up at him, blinking. “I, uh, I actually haven’t thought about trying to find her,” he admitted.

Gene nodded with a thoughtful expression and said nothing, and Sam knew he had loved his wife, but he was still surprised whenever he was given proof of that. He sat up straighter and turned to his computer to call up the internet browser.

Gene had turned to look at him and he was now frowning slightly, confused when he started to type.

“I’m searching in several databases, if she still lives here, we’ll know,” Sam explained, leaning back on the chair.

“Beech Street,” Gene said, behind him.

“What?”

“That’s where she lives now.”

“How could you possibly _know_?” he asked, spinning around on his chair.

Gene showed him the phone book. “Found it ‘ere,” he said with a smirk. “See? Old methods.”

Sam frowned then stood up to follow Gene who was already some steps ahead of him. “What were the chances?” he asked to the other’s back. “I mean, she could have remarried!”

Gene turned around and pointed a finger at him. “She couldn’t. I’m unforgettable!”

Sam blinked at him, then smiled and ducked his head. “That you are, Guv.”

Twenty minutes later they were parked in front of a small terraced house.

“It’s nice,” Sam said, but Gene grunted and didn’t move, the covering on the wheel squeaked softly as his grip on it tightened. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll be back in a minute, Guv,” he said and without waiting for a reply he got out and slammed the car door behind him.

They had passed a small shop on the way and Sam took his time getting there. He took some chewing gums, a pack of cigarettes for Gene and, after some thought, a small bottle of Scotch. He loitered as much as he could, until the shop owner started giving him dark looks.

He checked his watch, twenty minutes had gone by. He went to the counter and paid.

When he arrived back in the car Gene hadn’t moved, his hands still gripping the wheel.

“Took your time,” he mumbled when Sam got in.

He said nothing and just passed him the cigarettes and the Scotch.

 

* * *

 

Sam dropped into his chair and let his head fall into his hands with a sigh. “Crap.”

Light steps came from his right and stopped next to him, he knew those shoes.

“I manage to see you, finally,” Maya said and he turned his head to look at her, his left hand going to rub against the back of his neck.

“Hey, Maya,” he said.

“Long time no see, huh?” she replied, obviously angry, Sam grimaced. “I wonder whose fault is that.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” he started. “It’s just that I’ve been very busy lately, and-”

“Right,” she nodded, her lips pressed tight. “Running around with DCI Hunt.”

“We’re not ‘running around’, we’re working on an important case,” he sighed.

She stared at him, then quickly grabbed the folder from under his elbow, so fast he wasn't able to stop her in time. She opened the folder, gave a quick read, then closed it and looked at him.

“1974. Two murders, one kidnapping,” she said, then she sighed and shook her head and the look of pity in her eyes was almost unbearable. “Sam, this isn’t healthy for you,” she said softly. “I thought talking to David was good for you, but now…” she trailed off. Her eyes were shining, Sam noticed.

“This is not about me, Maya,” he said, even if it _was_ , but she wouldn’t have understood, how could she? He hardly could himself.

“Of course this is about you, Sam,” she said. “You and Hunt act as if you were on The Sweeney, or- Starsky and Hutch!”

Sam snorted, “So we use… _alternative_ methods and suddenly I’m crazy.”

“You were the one who told us you spent a year in the seventies while you were in a coma,” Maya hissed. “You call him ‘Guv’, Sam!”

“This is not-” but he stopped, because they were going nowhere with this. “We’re investigating those murders because they could be the key leading to the arrest of Johnny Sloane.”

Maya widened her eyes at him. “ _What_?” she exclaimed. “How?”

Sam scratched the back of his neck, Gene wasn’t going to be very happy, he knew, he could picture his face. But they needed Maya, they needed all the help they could get.

“We reckon we could link him and his cousin, one Greg Duvall, to those murders and my-” he cleared his throat, “DI Tyler’s kidnapping.”

Maya didn’t seem to have noticed his slip, though, she had reopened the folder and was currently reading through it more carefully. “Sam, if we could prove this…”

“I know,” he sighed. “But.”

She glanced at him, frowning. “But?”

“I’ve been to the Super with that,” he said, nodding to the folder. “We don’t have a go.”

She gaped, “Why?”

“After the last time, when the Drug Squad tried to pin that load of coke on him,” Maya nodded. “He sued the Department for harassment and the Super doesn’t want a repeat of that.”

“But with this we could nail him!” she exclaimed. “Even if he was only the instigator!”

“Well, they got Capone because of his taxes, didn’t they?” he shrugged, then leant forward, looking straight into her eyes. “We’re on our own here, Maya. And I want you to consider this carefully. We don’t have much to work with, only a cigar brand in fact, that might or might not have been Duval’s.”

“And what makes you so sure it’s him, then?” she asked.

“Gut feeling,” he replied, because it was true in some way.

She nodded thoughtfully, then looked at the file in her hands. “Count me in,” she said, then, “they got Capone because of a piece of paper, after all.”

 

* * *

 

They left Phil Knight, handcuffed and suspected of manslaughter, in the hands of DC Bradley and started making their way back to the car.

“You’re slow Tyler,” Gene told him as he was opening the door, but he too was still panting slightly.

Sam got in and grimaced, his hand instantly going to grip his stiff leg. “I’m a cripple, Guv, of _course_ I’m slow.”

Gene snorted. “You’re not a bloody cripple, you’re just slow.”

He sneaked a glance at Gene, weighing the situation, wondering if this would be the right moment. “I’ll stand before the commission next month,” he said. “They’ll decide whether I can go back to active duty.”

Gene sighed and rubbed his face, then turned to face him, “I know.”

Sam frowned. “How-”

“They left the message on your answer phone thingy, the other day,” he replied. “You were in the shower.”

“All this time you-” he shook his head, disbelieving. “So that’s _why_ you’ve been dragging me around with you! You think that’s somehow going to work?” Gene shrugged and Sam sighed. “There’s no way I’m ever going to be fit for duty,” he said, letting his head fall backwards and closing his eyes, his temples pounding from the effort of chasing Porter through what felt like half of Manchester. “You know that, do you?”

Gene was silent beside him, then, “that’s a mighty pile of crap.”

Sam snorted and turned to look at him. “Do you think it’s easy for me, huh?” he almost yelled, “because it’s not, but that’s the way things are, I’m a cripple and you have to stop pushing me, trying to persuade yourself to the contrary!”

“So you’re giving up,” Gene nodded, gripping the wheel, having not yet started the car.

“This is not-” he took a deep breath. “You can manage the crime scenes by yourself, now. And I’ll leave the chases to you as well, thank you very much,” his teeth clenched, he massaged his thigh, but it didn’t seem to help. “Jesus, my leg feels like a bloody rock.”

He looked up and saw that Gene was studying him closely, his eyes travelling from his thigh up to his eyes, he could read realization in them, and fear. He swallowed, Gene Hunt should be afraid of nothing.

“I’ll handle the cases, the interrogations, the reports,” he said. “These days policing is in the details, anyway.”

Gene slammed a hand against the wheel. “Damn it, Tyler!” he burst out, then slammed the hand again.

Sam said nothing and just rubbed his face, next to him Gene started the car. They weren’t moving though. After a moment Gene killed the engine and he looked at him, questioningly.

“I used to be the Sheriff out there, Sam,” Gene said, “but I wasn’t alone. And now I’m just another copper, but at least I have you,” and Sam didn’t know what to say to that. Gene met his eyes and held them. “What’s left then, now?”

 

* * *

 

Sam looked beside him at Gene, or the lump under the covers that would be Gene. The lump moved about a bit, then an arm came out, followed by the other and a head with tousled hair and green, sleepy eyes glaring up at him.

“What?” Gene barked, and his voice was husky from the sleep that still lingered.

“Nothing,” he shook his head. “Go back to sleep.”

Gene gave him a long look, but eventually turned on his side and snuggled back into the pillow.

He sighed.

Gene groaned and turned again. “Shut up.”

Sam blinked at him. “I said nothing!”

“You’re thinking too loudly.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Well, _excuse_ me.”

Gene grunted and closed his eyes, settling back, and Sam hated that he had to ruin an almost perfect Saturday morning, but, “we have to tell her.”

Gene cursed under his breath, but sat up slowly, and turned to look at him, his hair still going in every which way. “I know I’m gonna regret this,” he muttered to himself, then with a big show of rolling his eyes he asked, “but, why?”

“She found the condoms, yesterday,” he said, and that was a conversation he really didn’t care to repeat.

Gene cursed, and Sam was reminded once again that while he could be as nonchalant as himself in certain matters, he was still a man of the seventies, and in those days sex was something you did, not something you talked about.

“I told Maya they were ours, mine and hers, you know,” he shook his head, “but I know she suspects something, it’s not like we were having lots of sex lately,” he looked sideways at Gene. “I’m otherwise engaged.”

Gene sniffed. “So what?”

“We-” he rubbed his face. “I can’t go on like this, Gene, all this lying, this…” he gestured vaguely, “Going behind her back.”

“‘S not funny when you’re the one doing it, innit?” Gene snorted and reached for the pack of cigarettes on the night table.

Sam let his hands drop into his lap in exasperation. “This is different, alright?” he said. “It was the ‘70s then, now it’s 2007. It’s accepted, it’s _normal_.”

Gene frowned, then shook his head. “Forget it, Tyler.”

He sighed. “Look, I’m not saying we should go to Canal Street on Friday nights, I’m just-”

“ _No_ ,” Gene cut him off.

“I can’t believe this,” he muttered to the ceiling, then he turned to look at him. “You won’t be seen as a lesser man just because you’re sleeping with one, you know,” he said.

Gene took a long drag, then turned to him, and there was a strange light in his eyes. “That’s not the problem here, innit?” It was anger. “The problem is that you, Sam Tyler, are a bloody coward,” he concluded, stabbing a finger at him.

“What?”

“Because you’d rather go to that bird of yours and say, ‘sorry love, but I like cock now,’ than tell her the truth,” Gene continued.

He gaped at him, “And what would that be?” and now he was angry, as well. “Enlighten me!”

Gene gave him a long look. “Sorry love, but I don’t like you anymore.”

His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words were coming out. “You-” he blinked at Gene, then tried again. “That’s priceless!” he spat. “She stood by me during the coma and after that, during the PT, she was there when I came back to work!”

“So you’re gonna pass for an ungrateful arsehole, so what?” Gene shrugged then narrowed his eyes at him. “You convinced yourself you’re so much better than everybody else around you, that we all should feel grateful to be graced by your presence everyday. But you know something, Tyler?” he pointed two fingers at him, the cigarette held between them. “You _are_ an ungrateful arsehole, so step off that pedestal and come down to live with us real people.”

Sam stared at him wide-eyed, anger and confusion and disbelief an intricate jumble inside him, but most of all anger. Anger because Gene was such a prick, and he couldn’t believe that the most successful relationship he had in his life was with him. Well, not successful, but _working_.

He threw off the covers and jumped off the bed, stomping away to the kitchen to get breakfast ready. It was cold out of the bed and he was wearing only his boxers, he shivered.

Still in the bed, Gene grunted and settled back, and Sam didn’t turn to look, but he was probably hogging all the covers. “Bloody nutter,” he muttered. “That’s why beds are made just for sleepin’ and shaggin’.”

Sam sat down at the table, mug of hot coffee in one hand and a toast in the other, he munched quietly, staring at the wall. He was a sensible enough person, he should choose Maya, Maya who had stood by his side, Maya who was a wonderful, Maya who was beautiful, Maya who was a _woman_. He gave a startled, bitter laugh, but it sounded more like a stifled sob. He could have Maya and instead he’d chosen a nicotine-stained, alcohol addicted, overweight, swearing son of a bitch.

And maybe, he realized, maybe Gene was right and he really was an ungrateful bastard.

 

* * *

 

“We have a problem,” Maya said as soon as she’d closed the door behind her.

They all were in the photocopier room, Gene leaning against the shelves, Sam propped on the table.

“Oh, good,” Gene snorted and Maya glared at him.

He cleared his voice to bring the attention back to the matter at hand. “What problem, Maya?”

“It’s Greg Duval,” she said and shrugged.

“I knew it!” Gene burst out. “He’s dead, the fucking bastard!” he punched the wall and instantly grimaced, hissing and shaking his hand.

“Well, that was sensible,” Maya rolled her eyes. “And anyway, Greg Duval isn’t dead. Probably.”

Sam frowned. “What do you mean, 'probably'?”

“Well, I wondered why we’ve never heard of Duval before,” she said. “So I checked the files of the case that’s being built against Sloane. There’s no trace of him there.”

“No,” he said. “That’s not possible.”

Duval was Sloane’s cousin he had to be mentioned _somewhere_ , not counting that if he’d started as a somewhat hitman for him, they had to have something on him on those reports.

She shook her head. “The only mention I’ve found of him it’s in the guest list of Sloane’s second marriage,” she handed him some papers- “And I’ve looked _everywhere_. There’s only that, and those reports you already have from the seventies.”

Sam cleared his throat and sneaked a glance at Gene, but his eyes were unreadable. “Yeah, we already, uh, looked into them. Nothing.”

Maya nodded and leant back against the door. “What do we do now?”

Sam took a deep breath and tried to think. “Well, he can’t have fallen off the face of earth,” he reasoned.

“Unless he copped it,” Gene interjected. “With a little help from Sloane.”

“His own cousin?” Sam exclaimed, disbelieving. “Sloane is a bastard but I don’t think he’d get as far as having such a close relative killed.”

“We have to consider that as a possibility, though,” Maya pointed out.

He nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, we have to think,” he leafed through the guest list Maya had given him. “Details, details are important,” he looked up at Maya. “When did the wedding took place?”

Maya pointed at the top of the first sheet. “1981, it was a relatively private ceremony.”

Sam nodded. “Good, do we have an address for him around that time?”

“We have the one from 1974,” Gene said, pulling away from the wall and coming to his side, his arms still crossed.

He sighed and shrugged. “Well, it’s a good place to start as any.”

“And what are-” Maya started, but she was interrupted as somebody tried to open the locked door.

“Just a moment!” Maya called as whoever was outside started knocking.

“Get lost!” Gene barked. “We’re busy!”

There was a moment of silence. “People should stop having sex in the photocopier room, I’m filing a complaint!” an annoyed female voice said, then the sound of steps walking away.

Sam blinked. “Since when do people have sex in here?”

Maya just rolled her eyes. “You’re so naïve sometimes,” she muttered, and Gene raised his eyebrows at him with a smirk.

Sam groaned, the situation was already hard at the moment, he didn’t need those two to conspire against him.

Gene nodded firmly, and the pat he gave him on the back made him stumble. “Good work, Sammy-boy,” he looked at Maya. “You, too, love.”

She gaped at him, outraged. “‘ _You too, love_ ’?!” she exclaimed, but Gene had already unlocked the door and got out. She whirled around on Sam.

“Hey, it’s a great compliment coming from him,” he said.

“A compliment?! I’ve been running around for the past few days, working overtime, going over thirty years old reports to find that stuff, Sam! He can’t get away with a ‘good work, love’!”

“Listen, Maya,” he sighed. “You don’t know him as well as I do, and right now he’s going through a hard patch-”

“That’s no excuse!” she hissed. “You’re going through a hard patch, too, as am I. Everybody here has some sort of troubles, but you don’t see them going around treating people like dirt!”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is not the moment to have this conversation,” he sighed, and made for the door, by now Gene would be waiting for him, and you don’t keep Gene Hunt waiting.

Maya grabbed his arm, stopping him before he could get out. “He walks all over you, he _insults_ you, he has no regards-”

“Shut up,” he said, not unkindly, shrugging off her hand. “Yes, he’s insufferable, and there are times the urge to shoot him is almost an imperative, but there’s a…connection between us,” he struggled to find a satisfying definition. “There are some things we share, that nobody in the world could understand except for us.”

She frowned at him and shook her head, “Sam…”

“I’m sorry Maya,” he gently stroke her cheek. “I really can’t explain, but-”

“Oi, Gladys!” Gene poked his head inside and frowned at them. “All cosy, are ya? C’mon, chop chop.”

Maya tensed and Sam hung his head. “That would be one of those times of the shooting urge,” he sighed. “I’ll see you later,” he said softly then, kissing her forehead.

 

* * *

 

“You do realize,” Sam said, slamming the car door, “that by now we’re quite the odd couple at work?”

Gene frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you call me girl names and I call you Guv, despite the fact that I’m not poncey at all and that we both are DCIs.”

Gene gave him a look. “You _are_ a ponce.”

He ignored him. “And your way of policing is…” he made a vague hand gesture, trying to find a proper word. “Well, _unusual_. Normally I wouldn’t be seen hanging around the likes of you.”

“It’s me natural magnetism, Sammy, nobody can resist me.”

He rolled his eyes. “Though life yours, huh?”

“You get used to it.”

Gene sprinted up the steps to Whyatt’s door and banged his open palm against it so forcefully, Sam was afraid it was going to collapse under the knocks.

“Robert Whyatt open the door!” he bellowed. “Police! We know you are in there!”

“What I like mostly about you,” said Sam, “is your tact.”

Gene gave him a long look.

The door opened and a balding man in his sixties peered up at them. “Yes?” he asked, slightly intimidated.

“Robert Whyatt?” Sam asked.

Whyatt nodded slowly, frowning at both of them. “Who are you?”

Sam took out his badge, “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Tyler, this is Detective Chief Inspector Hunt.”

“Hello, Inspectors,” Whyatt stepped aside. “Come in.”

He nodded and smiled politely in gratitude. “We are here to ask a couple of questions, Mr. Whyatt.”

“Would you like some tea? Coffee?” Whyatt asked, leading the way to the living room. “I was just putting on the kettle.”

He glanced at Gene, who nodded his assent. “Yes, please. Tea is fine.”

When they were all settled in the living room, Whyatt on the armchair, he and Gene squeezed in the small couch, Sam took out his legal pad and started. “You moved into this house in 1982, Mr Whyatt, is that right?”

“Yes,” Whyatt. “Around the time my poor Mary, God bless her soul, passed away.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Cancer, you see. I couldn’t bear to live in our house anymore, so me and my son came here,” Whyatt leant forward. “He lives in London now, he has an important job.”

Next to him, Gene groaned and hissed to him. “If you ask about his biscuit secret recipe I’m going to kill you,” that said, he smiled tightly at their host, took his tea from the table and downed it in one gulp.

Even Whyatt looked impressed.

“Okay, Mr. Whyatt,” Sam said. “Do you remember the previous owner of this house?”

Whyatt frowned in concentration, then shook his head. “It was a long time ago, I don’t know.”

“Just take your time,” he continued. “This is very-”

“Alright, listen to me,” Gene cut him off, slapping his thigh. “Nasty git. Dark hair, short.”

“He smoked cigars,” Sam added.

“A soddin’ bastard,” Gene said, “who smoked Havanas.”

Whyatt stared at Gene for a long moment, then turned towards Sam and asked, whispering, “is he for real?”

Sam snorted. “Sometimes, I do wonder that myself, Sir.”

Whyatt nodded, then. “I don’t remember him,” he said, shaking his head, “but I asked the lady who sold me the house why the owner wanted to sell,” he leant forward, with a knowing smile. “You’re never too careful in these matters, there’s always somebody ready to swindle you.”

Sam nodded, and next to him Gene sighed deeply and appeared to sink into the cushions, occupying to the last inch, his elbow painfully thrust against Sam's ribs.

“But she said that the house was perfect, the owner had just…’ _gone away for a while_ ’,” he said, and twirled his fingers next to his head.

Sam frowned and exchanged glances with Gene, then looked back at the old man. “Excuse me, what?”

“Hampstead,” Whyatt said, and took a sip of tea.

Gene turned to look at him, “Duval’s in the nutty house?” he blinked.

 

* * *

 

Sam raised his head just in time to see Gene come into the office. He stood up and went to intercept him. There was a deep frown on his face, and from his determined steps Sam could guess it was nothing good. But he had important news about Duval and he needed to talk to Gene.

“I just checked-” he started, but Gene pushed past him and continued to his desk.

“Not now.”

“But Guv…”

“Not. Now,” Gene ground out, sitting down on the chair

Both elbows on the desk, he rubbed his face and ultimately remained like that, his face hidden in his hands.

Sam sat on the edge of the desk. “What is it?”

Gene sniffed and after a moment leant back, he looked at his turned off computer, then swept his gaze all over the room, to stop on Sam. He was still frowning. Gene scratched his jaw. “It’s just so…” he trailed off. “ _Different_.”

He nodded. He could relate, “Yeah.”

“It’s three in the afternoon and I’ve only smoked six fags,” Gene shook his head. “It’s changing me.”

Sam snorted, trust Gene to have his own priorities. “Not the important bits, Guv.”

Gene squinted up at him, “Next thing you know I’ll become a sentimental little girl like you and I’ll join your knitting circle.”

“Can’t,” Sam shook his head. “We’re already half-way through our current project. But you can join when we’re finished with that,” he smiled sunnily.

Gene blinked at him. “Tosser,” he concluded then, glaring.

“I’m making you a tea cosy in cross-stitch,” he said, schooling his features in a perfectly serious face, “It matches your curtains, it’s gonna be _lo-ve-ly_!”

“Twat,” Gene snorted, but his mouth was twitching.

Sam grinned at him and stood up. “Come with me,” he said and gestured for him to follow him.

 

* * *

 

“The morgue?” Gene asked when they got there, perplexed, but then he shrugged and sat down next to him.

“It’s the place that’s changed the least,” he said softly, looking at the tip of his shoes, his legs extended in front of him. “I used to come here a lot, when I-” he sighed. “Sometimes it felt just like you or Annie or anybody else could have turned the corner any moment.”

“Smell is all wrong, though,” Gene muttered.

Sam nodded. “Thirty years is a long time. Many things have happened.”

Gene said nothing in reply, and he closed his eyes and leant back, the back of his head touching the cold tiles.

“I was…adjusting, you know. It still wasn’t home, but,” Sam said after a while. “It was starting to feel like it.”

Gene grunted and he fell silent again. He didn’t know how much time they had shared in companionable silence, but reality arrived much too soon to break their temporary peace.

“What are you doing here?” Maya asked, and when Sam opened his eyes she was standing in front of them, hands on her hips.

“Taking a break,” he replied.

“In the _morgue_?”

Gene smirked up at her, “Silent as the grave ‘ere, love,” he said and both Sam and Maya grimaced at that.

“Your sense of humour could use a change,” Sam groaned. “That was just wrong on so many levels.”

Maya took a deep breath. “Have you told him, Sam?”

Gene frowned at him. “Told me what?”

Oh, right.

“He found Greg Duval,” Maya answered for him.

He nodded. “He got into Hampstead under his mother’s name, Cooper. He left in 1988,” he said. “That’s all I’ve been able to find out. I don’t know the reason why he went to a psychiatric hospital.”

“Well, he was a twisted son of a bitch, alright,” Gene muttered.

Sam glared at him. “He’s out now and it may be probable he’s still going by his mother’s name.”

“So we find him and we bring him in,” Maya said.

He shook his head. “We still haven’t got any evidence at all, apart from a thirty years old cigar wrapper.”

“We’ll put pressure on him,” she replied. “We have to do something!”

“Yeah, right,” Gene snorted. “I’ve seen your interrogation techniques, you’ll probably hold his hands while Sammy-boy here goes all softly-softly the way he likes it. Oh, he’ll surely talk!”

“It’s not like the hard way has worked with him, either,” Sam reminded him.

“Just give me five minutes with him.”

“And he’ll probably need a hospital,” he shook his head. “No, we need a different approach.”

Gene was about to say something, but he stopped and his whole face cleared. He smirked slowly. “We’ll go undercover,” he said.

The last time Gene had been this eager about undercover work it had been in a pub, but there were no pubs involved now, and Sam was suddenly very worried.

“Undercover?” Maya frowned. “As what?”

Gene grinned. “Trust the Gene Genie.”

And now Sam was very, _very_ worried.

 

* * *

 

He appreciated the irony in all this. Really, he did. Actually, that was the only thing he appreciated about Gene’s plan. He looked down at his clothes, feeling self-conscious, the last time he had worn seventies style clothes he _had been_ in the seventies.

Maya was driving, and by the looks of her she had finally managed to suppress the earlier laughter when she’d first seen their attires.

“You look-” she’d said as soon as she’d seen them. “The jacket suits you.”

The black leather jacket was a genuine seventies piece, bought in a shop that sold used clothes just after he’d come out of the hospital. He’d worn it only once, though, the familiar smoothness under his fingers as they had glided over the material, the smell of it, the sound of it as he moved, the wave of nostalgia had made it impossible for him to wear again. Until now.

In the passenger seat, Gene seemed to have some second thoughts, too, as he was frowning at his own attire. “I look like a bloody clown,” he muttered.

Sam rolled his eyes. “You used to wear this stuff pretty regularly, I seem to recall. Every day, in fact.” Maya shot him a confused look, but he ignored her.

“‘S not the same, this stuff is fake,” Gene replied with a disgusted grimace.

“Well, it’s not like we could splash out on vintage clothing,” he replied, and when Gene frowned. “We just have to look believable, okay? It was your plan, anyway.”

“I’m still trying to come to terms with the questionable ethicality of this stunt,” Maya said, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“You have a better idea, love?” Gene said, tilting his head to the side, his eyes hidden by sunglasses.

She gave him a look and shook her head. “You are going undercover as _hallucinations_!” she exclaimed. "I don’t think you’ve fully considered the situation!”

“Maya-” he tried.

“No, because I still don’t get it how you think this is going to work!”

Gene shrugged. “He’s a nutter.”

Sam shook his head. “He’s _not_ a nutter.”

“What, you’re taking her side now?”

“You have to admit that this is pretty far-fetched,” he continued. “You have no guarantees that it’s gonna work out.”

Gene snorted. “So now that we’re here all dressed for the occasion you want to turn back?”

“No, but-”

“Will you two stop!” Maya exclaimed, slamming the palm of her hand on the wheel.

The car slowed and parked in front of Greg Duval’s – Cooper’s – house. Maya took a deep breath and met his eyes in the rear view mirror. “Explain to me,” she said, “why you’re so sure Duval’s gonna think you don’t exist. Because you look very real to me, you’ve got silly clothes, but you’re _real_.”

Sam lowered his eyes. “If you don’t feel like it,” he began softly.

“Sam,” Maya said. “ _Tell me_.”

He shook his head and continued. “We could stop here.”

“Sam!”

“It’s… _complicated_ ,” he sighed. “Maya, I don’t want to-”

“I don’t believe it!” she exclaimed, then she turned to Gene. “It’s all your fault! He was doing fine until you arrived! He was coping!”

“No, Maya-”

Gene stared at her for a long time, then he cleared his throat, “Now, listen to me, love,” he started, “because I don’t give a toss what you think, that soddin’, murderin’ bastard killed two people in cold blood, and one of them was a kid. And I am going to get the evidence you lot are so fond of, so that a bigger bastard can rot in jail. I don’t care if you don’t like me ways, I don’t care if you don’t like _me_ , that’s the door, love, you can walk away. Or help us. Decide, now. With me or against me.”

Sam rubbed his face. “Jesus, Guv.”

“With all due respect, sir,” she said. “You are a son of a bitch,” she took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

“Good girl,” Gene smirked, then turned to look at him. “Come on, Gladys.”

Maya was still shaking her head when she knocked on the green door. “Mr. Cooper,” she called. “Police. Mr. Cooper?”

After a moment the door opened to show a man who looked much older than his sixty-four years, deep wrinkles lined his face. Gene stiffened beside him, and Sam knew they were looking right at Greg Duval.

“Mr. Cooper, I’m DC Maya Roy,” Maya said, showing him her badge. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

Duval wasn’t looking at her, though, he kept sneaking glances at Gene and Sam as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Who are those men with you?” he asked; his voice was a low wheezing.

“I’m the Gene Genie, he’s Sammy-boy,” Gene replied, showing his teeth. “Remember us, Duval?”

Maya looked around herself with a frown. “Uh, what men, Mr. Cooper? There’s no one here but me and you.”

Duval’s eyes widened in fear and he swallowed. “Y-Yes, of course,” he said, letting her in. “I just thought-”

Maya stood in the entrance and with the excuse of taking in the hallway and the staircase leading upstairs she held the door open, giving them the time to get in. “Nice house you have here, Mr. Cooper,” she said, nonchalantly.

“Y-Yes,” Duval stuttered, following their every movement with widened eyes.

“Nice house indeed,” Sam said.

“Bought it with the money you made killin’ people?” Gene asked. “Or was it a gift from your dear cousin?”

“Mr. Cooper?” Maya asked.

Duval’s head snapped in her direction. “Yes, this way, please.”

They reached the living room, Maya sitting down on the couch, Gene and Sam standing behind her.

She took her note pad out of her pocket and pretended to go over it, while Duval watched with increasing horror as Gene walked around his living room, picking up stuff, putting it back down and giving him the occasional smirk.

“Really nice house,” Sam repeated, with a big smile, then he frowned. “What’s wrong Greg? You don’t want us here?”

“No!” Duval burst out.

Maya raised her head, “I’m sorry?”

Sam sighed. “But you’re lonely. Aren’t you lonely? We can be your friends,” he said, sing-songly, but he must have exaggerated a bit, because Maya tensed and Gene gave him a look from across the room. He shut up and went back to smiling beatifically.

Maya cleared her throat. “Right, Mr. Cooper,” she started, “I’m here regarding two murders committed in the seventies,” she made a big show of checking her notes. “1974, to be exact. The victims’ names were James Darvell and Michael Bowley.”

“Jimmy Eye and Cheeky Mickey,” Gene said, circling around Duval’s couch and crouching down in front of him. “You remember them? Of course you do, right Sammy?” he asked over his shoulder at him.

“Of course he does,” Sam replied, still smiling. “He never forgets.”

Duval was staring ahead, his eyes fixed on the wall behind Sam’s left shoulder, swallowing convulsively.

Gene shook his head in a disapproving manner. “Maybe you don’t remember,” he said, “but no worries! Because _we_ do.”

“Of course we do,” he said. “We never forget.”

“You were brought in, by one,” Maya continued, checking her notes again. “Gene Hunt, DCI.”

Gene waved at him, and Duval nodded. “Y-Yes.”

“Can you tell me the reason for that?” she asked. “We seem to have misplaced the interview log.”

“I…” Duval started, looking at Gene out of the corner of his eye.

“Because you killed them, didn’t you!” Gene yelled suddenly, making him jump. “You sneaked behind their back and shot them, like the little filthy coward you are! And then you smoked a bloody cigar for the job well done, didn’t you?”

Duval was trembling.

“Didn’t you?!” Gene shouted, now standing and looming over him.

Duval let out a strangled sound, like a dying animal and covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re not real!” he screamed. “Go away! You’re not real! You’re dead!”

Sam stood frozen, a queasy feeling in stomach, as he watched Duval break down. An old man. A murderer. Himself, one year ago, thirty years ago, screaming at a girl in a red dress that had come out of the TV.

“You’re not real!” he shouted again, and his voice broke.

“Mr. Cooper!” Maya had dropped her pad, and was now kneeling next to him, glaring at Gene over the old man’s head. “Are you alright?”

Stop this, he wanted to say, he wanted to call it quits, because Maya was right, this was unethical, immoral, this was plain _cruel_.

“Tell her,” he said, instead. “And we’ll go.”

“Yes!” Duval screamed, and there were tears in his voice.

“He told me it was only a favour,” he whispered, looking straight at Maya. “I was family, he could count on me. He trusted me. He said he’d protect me. That we were untouchable.”

Maya disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a glass of water. Duval took it from her hands like a drowning man with a life jacket.

She sat in front of him, on the coffee table. “Who told you that, Mr. Cooper?”

“Me cousin, Johnny,” he said. “Johnny Sloane.”

“Alright,” Maya nodded slowly. “What did he ask you to do?”

“There were people who knew too much,” he said. “He asked me to keep ‘em quiet.”

“To kill ‘em,” Gene said in a low voice.

Duval nodded. “To kill them.”

Maya drew in a sharp breath. “What did they know?”

“About him and,” Duval shook his head, “I don’t remember his name, he was a copper, though. Way up the ladder. Moss, More or something like that.”

“Moore,” Gene said, and there was a trace of surprise in his voice. “Detective Chief Superintendent Moore.”

“Moore, yes, him!” Duval exclaimed. “And Johnny told me, you go at night, when they can’t see you and you only pull the trigger. It’s easy, he said. It’s easy.”

“It’s not easy living with it, though, is it,” Sam said softly. “You were not a killer. You were just doing your cousin a favour.”

“Yes,” Duval whispered brokenly, nodding. “Please, leave me alone, please.”

“This is a very serious accusation you’re making, Mr. Cooper,” Maya said. “Do you understand it?”

“I just want to be left alone,” the old man said, shaking his head.

“Are you willing to come down the station and give a statement?” she asked. “Are you willing to confess?”

Duval raised his head and looked straight at him, the question clear in his eyes, and Sam thought of all the things he would have liked to hear, just once, thirty years ago.

“Do it, Greg,” he said. “You’ll go back. You’ll be free. You’ll be home.”

Duval hung his head and sobbed.

As soon as they were outside, Maya hurried down the steps. “I feel dirty,” she said, brushing past him on her way to the car.

Gene stood next to him, looking at him. “Bloody hell, Tyler,” he said and he sounded stunned. “You were creepy in there.”

Sam shrugged. “I’ve seen The Shining five times,” he replied, and Gene frowned uncomprehendingly.

And at least the bloody Test Card Girl had taught him something. He shivered in the late afternoon air and walked to the car, Gene following him.

The journey back was spent in silence.

 

* * *

 

Gene gave a final grunt against his neck, his pants wet and hot against Sam's skin, and stilled above him. Then he lifted himself on his left elbow planted next to Sam’s head, and brushed their lips together. Sam’s right leg fell down from Gene’s shoulder, the other slipping down Gene’s arm, to be stopped by his hand as he gripped his thigh. He didn’t let Gene go, though, and tightened his arms around his neck, tugging down, deepening the kiss.

Eventually, though, Gene broke the kiss and slipped out and away from him, turning on his back next to him. He scratched the hair at his crotch, absent-mindedly. “Nice shag,” he commented, finally.

Sam rolled his eyes and turned around, on his stomach, sinking his face into the pillow. “You’re so sweet,” he muttered darkly.

Gene hummed. “You got the time?”

Sam frowned at the non-sequitur, but turned his head to squint at the digits on his alarm clock. “Uh, quarter past,” he said and yawned.

Jesus, he was getting old if sex on a lazy Sunday afternoon had that effect on him.

“Quarter past what?”

“Six.”

“I fancy a cuppa,” Gene said. “Make us some, will ya, Sammy?”

Sam glared at him, but Gene just looked at him, his eyebrows raised expectantly. He sighed, resigned to his fate.

Gene grinned. “Good boy,” he exclaimed, slapping him on the arse.

He shook his head and put on his boxers, walking barefoot to the kitchen.

The water had just started boiling, when he heard the sound of keys turning in the lock and Maya appeared on the threshold, the key ring still dangling from her fingers, a deep frown etched on her features.

“Sam?” she said.

“Maya?” he swallowed. “What are you doing here?”

She shook her head. “I received a text message, you said to come around for dinner at half past six.”

He frowned. “I didn’t-” _Wait_. That fucking bastard! ‘You got the time?’ “You complete, utter…” he trailed off, as he raised his eyes and saw Gene leaning on the against the doorframe leading to the bedroom, stark naked, a cigarette hanging limp from his lips.

“What is it, Sam?” Maya asked and noticing his widened eyes, turned around.

The fucking bastard, and Sam who’d taught him how to use the bloody mobile phone!

“Hiya, love,” Gene said with a smirk. “Wanna join the party?”

Maya blinked, turned around and left without a word, leaving him to gape at Gene.

The door slammed shut.

“You-” he started, stabbing a finger in Gene’s direction. “You arrogant bastard! I can’t believe you!”

Gene shrugged and came into the kitchen, going straight for the lighter he’d earlier dropped on the table. “I think the words you’re looking for are ‘Thank you’,” he said, cupping his hand around the cigarette and lighting it.

Sam barked an incredulous laugh. “Why would I _want_ to thank you?!”

Gene took a long drag, narrowing his eyes at him, he let out the smoke. “Because I took the decision out of your hands, Sammy-boy,” he said. “Because you’ve got me to focus the blame on, now that the bird’s gone,” he tilted his head. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” he said finally, and left in the direction on the bedroom.

He stood in the middle of the kitchen, his eyes wide, and he still couldn’t. Believe. This.

He ran after him, anger building inside of him. “Come back here, you prick!” he shouted. “Come here!”

Gene stopped and after a moment turned around.

“You had no right! No right to do that to me!” he yelled, planting his open palm against his chest and shoving him, but Gene only stumbled slightly. “To do that to _her_! I can’t believe I put up with your crap willingly!”

Gene grabbed his arm, preventing Sam from shoving him again, and got into his face, his eyes narrowed to a slit, furious. “Then why do you, eh?” he hissed. “Why are you still here? Why don’t you go running after the bird?”

“I just might,” he spat.

“Good for you,” Gene said, releasing his arm with such force that he stumbled back.

“I just might!” he repeated, louder, to Gene’s back as he walked away, disappearing into the bathroom, leaving a trail of smoke in his way.

“Bastard,” he whispered, sliding down the wall, to land on his arse, head falling forwards into his arms.

 

* * *

 

Sam tapped his fingers lightly against the wheel. Gene sat next to him, in the passenger seat, looking out the window, at Sloane’s house, four blocks away down the street.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he said, finally. “I should be the one to go to the judge.”

Gene gave him a brief look, then went back to looking through the window.

“Maya shouldn’t have been the one to do it,” he went on. “I’m her DCI, and I’m leading the investigation.”

“Shut it, Tyler,” Gene said. “She’s a smart bird.”

“I’m not worried about that, Gu-Gene.”

Gene turned to look at him. “As soon as the plods get here with the warrant we nick the bastard,” he said. “Where would you rather be?”

Sam nodded. “If they grant us the warrant,” he said. “The judge could decide that Duval’s mental record precludes him from being a reliable witness. Or the defence could use that during the trial.”

“Or you could grow a pair of tits. Or I could vanish right here and now in a cloud of smoke,” Gene cut him off. “We’ll get the bloody warrant and we’ll nick the bloody bastard. And we’ll find enough evidence for the trial.”

Sam shook his head. “He’s constantly under surveillance, he’d never do something so stupid as to leave around evidence for us to find.”

Gene slammed a hand against the dashboard. “Bloody hell, Gladys!” he burst out. “There’s no pleasing you! First you moan because you want to nick him, then you moan because you don’t like my way of nicking him. And finally you moan because we actually get to nick him.”

Sam shook his head. “I just wonder,” he said.

“What?”

“Where do we go from here?” he said, turning to meet Gene’s eyes. “What’s going to happen? To you, to me.”

Gene sniffed and looked away, Sam went back to tapping the wheel.

“Gene,” he said, after a minute.

He searched his pockets and came up with a set of keys, one unlocked the main entrance, the other his front door, Maya had given them back. They jingled as he kept them suspended between them.

Gene looked at him and, with an imperceptible nod, he took them.

His mobile phone started vibrating on the dashboard and he grabbed it before it could fall down.

It was Maya.

“Tyler,” he said, and his voice was calm.

“We’ll be there in ten minutes,” Maya said, and he heard the relief in her voice. “We did it, Sam.”

“Yes,” he said, hanging up and turning to Gene. “We got it,” he said, smiling, and his face felt like it was splitting in two.

Gene nodded firmly and in a move that he hadn’t anticipated at all, he closed the space between them and gave him a dry, light kiss. It was over before he even realized it had happened, Gene back once again to looking through the window.

He was still blinking at him when they started hearing the sirens. In a daze, Sam started the car and preceded the back up to Sloane’s house.

When they parked outside, Maya reached them and with a smile, gave him the warrant, Sam exchanged the smile and turned to Gene. “You want to do the honours?” he asked, tilting his head.

Gene strode to the door, his fist coming down on the surface in sure, loud knocks.

“Johnny Sloane,” he said, loudly. “Open up, police!”

After another round of knocking, the door opened and a rather underdressed woman in her twenties blinked up at them. “Yes?” she asked.

“Is Sloane at home, love?” Gene asked, his eyes travelling up and down her body. “He your daddy?”

“I’m his _wife_ ,” she said, outraged. “And Johnny is busy right now.”

“I’m ‘fraid we’ll have to interrupt,” Gene said, pushing past her into the hallway.

“Johnny Sloane!” he bellowed. “Police!”

Officers flowed in behind them, checking every room on the ground floor.

The man himself came down the stairs, wearing a Japanese silk robe and an annoyed expression. “Don’t worry, Evey,” Sloane said to his wife, as she reached his side. “I’m sure there’s has been a mistake.”

“No mistake at all,” Sam replied. “We’re here to arrest you.”

Sloane snorted. “On what grounds?”

“Complicity in premeditate murder. Murders,” he replied. “Corruption, kidnapping.”

“And that’s the only the beginning of what I’m sure it’s gonna be a mighty long list,” Gene said, going up the stairs, handcuffs ready. “Now yer hands please, Mr Sloane.”

When he didn’t comply, Gene turned him around, slightly more roughly than necessary and recited, “you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence,” he concluded and looked back at Sam to see if he’d got it right, Sam smiled and nodded.

“You can’t do this!” Sloane exclaimed. “You have no idea who you’re up against!”

“No,” Gene said, spinning him around so that they were now face to face. “ _You_ have no idea who you’re up against!” he exclaimed. “The name’s Gene Hunt, and you’re nicked.”

Arriving back at the office and getting in to the sound of dozens hands clapping didn’t feel anything like The Railway Arms in 1973, but it was damn close.

 

* * *

 

Sam stumbled under the dead weight of Gene as they crossed the threshold. He grimaced as the stink of booze and nicotine assaulted his senses, it was familiar in some way, but he wasn’t accustomed to it anymore.

He dragged more than carried Gene to the bedroom, letting him fall on the bed as soon as they were there. He took off the shoes and started undressing him, and Gene must have been more sober than he’d previously thought, because he smirked and said in a slurred voice. “Good Sammy.”

He rolled his eyes. “Please,” he snorted. “With all the alcohol in your blood it would be a wonder if you got it up at all, much less do anything with it.”

Gene propped himself up on his elbows, slipped, tried again. “Try me.”

Sam shook his head and, laying the tip of his finger on his forehead, gave a light push. Gene fell back with a surprised sound and he laughed softly. “Tosser.”

“Twat,” came the swift reply.

In the dark, Sam took off his clothes and, pulling back the covers, managed to put both of them to bed without any further accidents.

Gene burped quietly and shifted. “I don’t get it, sometimes,” he said.

Sam frowned and looked at him, the only thing he could see in the darkness a vague shape. “What?” he asked softly.

“How you did it.”

“Did what?” Sam asked again, but Gene didn’t reply.

He was beginning to think that he’d fallen asleep, when Gene’s voice continued. “We never helped much, did we?” he said. “We never believed you.”

 _Oh._

“How could you?” he whispered, then smiled bitterly. “There were times when even _I_ didn’t believe myself.”

Gene hummed. “But you never gave up.”

“As you often like to point out, I’m a stubborn fool,” he replied.

Gene lifted a hand, his index finger pointed vaguely in his direction, almost poking one of his eyes out. “That you are,” he said.

Sam grabbed his hand and laid it on the mattress, between them. He didn’t take his away, though, and brushed his fingers lightly over the knuckles. “It’s not true anyway,” he said, after a moment. “You helped, in a way. Annie, as well. She listened to me even if she thought I was crazy. And you humoured me, reining me in only when it was necessary.”

Gene shrugged slightly and the motion carried over to their joined hands. “You kept paying me tab,” he said. “And you made a fool out of Lytton a few times.”

He snorted. “It was a job that did itself.”

“And,” Gene went on, raising his the finger of his other hand, “you occasionally amused me, so it was the least I could do.”

“So, keeping the alcohol coming and entertaining you are the keys to your benevolence,” he reasoned.

“You learn fast, Sammy-boy,” Gene said, a big hand clumsily patting him on the head. “Now, alcohol I’ve had,” he said, and guided their joined hands to his crotch. “Entertain me.”

Sam snorted. “Ah, I wondered what was the point of all this,” he muttered, but groped him gently through his pants. And Gene was hard, despite the alcohol.

“I’ve tried the direct approach,” Gene sighed, “but you wouldn’t put out.”

Sam laughed softly, and ducked under the covers. Slid down smooth, soft flesh, to reach Gene’s cock, even harder now, and curving up and slapping against his cheek when he pulled down the boxers. A hand landed on his head, fingers sliding through his short hair, caressing, holding him. He kissed the tip, buried his nose in the pubic hair at the base.

“Gene,” he hummed softly, and a thought occurred to him.

He climbed up, until his head emerged from under the covers. “Gene,” he repeated.

Gene groaned loudly. “And why,” he said, “did you stop, now?”

“What if-” he whispered, “what will happen when the year’s gone?”

“Bloody hell, Tyler,” Gene covered his face with an arm, his cock still hard and demanding against Sam’s thigh.

“We’re living on borrowed time!” Sam exclaimed, gripping his arms.

“Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

“What if tomorrow you’re gone?”

“Well, at least I would have gone with a blow-job,” Gene muttered.

“Gene, this is serious!” he hissed.

Gene rubbed his eyes and sighed like the whole world was weighting down on his shoulders. Finally he propped himself up on his elbows. “And what if in a year I’m gone?” he asked then. “We’ve got one year, Sam. Two months ago we had nowt.”

San blinked and then smiled, because that was true, wasn’t it?

They kissed, slowly, idly, then Sam started a trail of kisses that went back under the covers, back where his attention was needed.

And maybe one day Sam would wake up to find himself alone, and maybe that day was tomorrow, or next month, or next year, or never, but for now had had him under his hands, around him, inside him, invading all of his senses.

And for a night he could pretend it was enough.


End file.
